


























































Class G 5 ^ 
Bonl r o Q G _ 





COFZRIGHT DEPOSm 








PRIZE WINNING 


ONE ACT PLAYS 


Compiled by 

BILLIE ONEAL 

(Mrs. Ben G. Oneal) 



VOL. I. 


Tombs .... 

The Inspiration 

The Pedler 

Ximination 

Crude and Unrefined 

The Coward 

The Cavalier from France 


. Mable Ruth Stong 
. . Billie Oneal / 

. Fritz G. Lanhamrs^ 

, James H. bJewett 

Margaret Elizabeth Bowen 
. Marjorie Garnett 

. Jan Isbelle Fortune 


THE SOUTHWEST PRESS 

Publishers in and of the Southwest 

~ DALLAS — 






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Copyright, 1930 

By 

Southwest Press 



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TO MY MOTHER 
whose encouragement and help made 
possible my study and interest 
in dramay 

1 dedicate this book. 









FOREWORD 


Through my activities in dramatic work, I became 
acquainted with the fact that printed Southwestern 
plays were very scarce. 

Realizing that there is available in the Southwest 
a wealth of dramatic material which can be incor¬ 
porated into plays and thereby made of use to dra¬ 
matic organizations, schools and women’s clubs, I 
have compiled this anthology with the hope that it 
may prove of value to those who have a desire for 
"recreation that will recreate” and that the produc¬ 
tion of these plays may lead to a wider development 
of Southwestern material into dramatic form. It is 
with the further hope that others may answer the 
urge to gather the traditions, the history, the folk¬ 
lore, the laughter and the tears of the Southwest 
and its people into plays that this compilation is 
made. 

Billie Oneal. 

(Mrs. Ben G. Oneal.) 

March, 1930. 


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TABLE OF CONTENTS 


Page 

Tombs —Mable Ruth Stong _ 1 

The Inspiration —Billie Oneal _ 27 

The Pedler —Fritz G. Lanham _ SI 

’Limination —James H. Newett _ 79 

Crude and Unrefined— 

Margaret Elizabeth Bowen _ 99 

The Coward— Margorie Garnett _ 111 

Texas History Play {The Cavalier from 
France) (Great Moments in Texas His¬ 
tory )—Jan Isbelle Fortune _ 129 

(vii) 














V r ’ll 


V.:- 


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WHO’S WHO 


Mable Ruth Stong, the author of ‘‘Tombs,” the 
prize play of the Texas Federation of Women’s 
Club One-Act Play Contest, is a native of Okla¬ 
homa, though all of her college life has been 
spent, with one exception, at the College of In¬ 
dustrial Arts, Denton, Texas. The one exception 
dates back to the summer of ’26, when she at¬ 
tended the Southern Branch of the University 
of California at Los Angeles. 

Miss Stong says, “Although my major is still 
kindergarten, the field of Speech has almost lured 
me away from it. The play ‘Tombs’ marks my 
first attempt at play-writing, and was under¬ 
taken as an elective side-line to a drama course 
under the direction of Mr. Grover C. Shaw, di¬ 
rector of the Speech Department of C. I. A.” 

Two other one-act plays have been written 
since by Miss Stong. 

Billie Oneal is the pen name of Mrs. Ben G. 
Oneal, the compiler of “One-Act Texas Plays.’^ 
Mrs. Oneal has been actively connected with dra¬ 
matic work in Texas for the past fifteen years. 
When a student in Polytechnic College she wrote 
and staged a three-act play. After receiving her 
B.A. and B.O. degrees from that school she be¬ 
came a teacher of English and Expression, later 
becoming president of a Little Theater group, 

(ix) 


Who’s Who 


and then directly connected with dramatic ac¬ 
tivities in women’si clubs. 

*'The Inspiration” was the prize play in a con¬ 
test conducted by the Woman’s Forum of 
Wichita Falls. Mrs. Oneal is also the author of 
more than fifty articles and stories which have 
appeared in various magazines throughout the 
United States. 

Fritz G. Lanham, congressman from the twelfth 
district, is one of the pioneers in dramatic work 
in Texas. Flis earliest activity came as a stu¬ 
dent in the University of Texas. There with the 
aid of his brother he wrote and produced plays 
that were the delight of the student body. His 
acting and play-writing proved so popular that 
he was prevailed upon to go on the professional 
stage, for a time. 

Later, when engaged in the practice of law at 
Weatherford, Texas, he was the director of all 
plays staged by the high school. Then the urge 
came for him to serve in the great law-making 
body of the United States, the House of Repre¬ 
sentatives, and dramatic writing was put into the 
back ground. However, from his earlier interests 
we have the play **The Pedler,” which Mr. Lan- 
ham says, **Shows a type of play we were inter¬ 
ested in then.” 

Mr. Lanham is also the author of the book 


(X) 


Who^s Who 


^Putting Troy in a Sack,” articles, plays and 
poems. 

James H. Newett was born in Chicago and re¬ 
ceived his Ph.B. degree from the University of 
Chicago. In addition to ’Limination,” Mr. 
Newett has had published newspaper articles and 
verse. The past year he has prepared literary 
programs for various women’s clubs in Texas. At 
present Mr. Newett is employed by the Ameri¬ 
can National Red Cross at Dallas, Texas. 

Margaret Elizabeth Bowen states that '*Crude 
and Unrefined” was based upon an actual experi¬ 
ence. Mrs. Bowen’s dramatic activities have 
been in connection with two very successful Lit¬ 
tle Theatres, the Tulsa and Wichita Falls organi¬ 
zations. Prior to her dramatic interests, Mrs. 
Bowen was for ten years a professional writer 
of travels in America and China. 

Marjorie Garnett. The widespread interest in 
dramatic work is felt not only in adult organi¬ 
zations, but in junior groups as well. High 
school dramatic clubs are encouraging play pro¬ 
ducing and play writing. As a result of such 
interests comes the play **The Coward” from 
Marjorie Garnett. Miss Garnett is 14 years of 
age, a student in the Gainesville High School and 
'^interested in becoming a writer.” "The Cow¬ 
ard” is her second work to be published, her first 
being a poem, "Clouds,” in the Dallas News, 

(xi) 


Who’s Who 


Jan Isbelle Fortune, daughter of Judge and Mrs. 
J. M. Isbelle. Born in Wellington, Texas, 1892. 
Graduate Wellington High School. Began writ¬ 
ing at the age of nine. First printed work in Dal¬ 
las News in 1909, a poem. Appeared in Snappy 
Stories in 1918, and included in Hilton Ross 
Greer’s Voices of the Southwest. Began writing 
feature stories for Dallas News five years ago. 
Ran poems in feature section under contract for 
eighteen months. Winner of 1929 book award 
of the Poetry Society of Texas. '*Black Pop¬ 
pies,” put out by Southwest Press, is entry. Series 
of fifty-two plays on Texas History for Magnolia 
Petroleum Company are being broadcasted over 
Station WFAA. The plays included here come 
in that series. Mrs. Fortune is an authority on 
Texas History. " 


(xii) 


^ombs 

By 

Mable Ruth Stong 


Prize play in the State-wide Contest 
of the ''Federation of Women’s Club.” 

Price for production, $7.50. Write 
the Southwest Press, Publishers. 


(1) 





4 






TOMBS 

CHARACTERS: 

Maggie Combs —The grave-digger—is a medium¬ 
sized, sturdy woman of about fifty. Her mussy, 
worn, mannish, working clothes and her rough¬ 
ened calloused hands are direct contradiction to 
the resolute pride that looks out from a face 
that is crowned with a dirty stocking cap. About 
her mouth are traces of snuff. She moves with 
a heavy stiffened stride that denotes the result 
of hard labor on a powerful physique. 

**Old Man^^ Combs —Maggie’s irresponsible hus¬ 
band. The **Old Man,” although taller than 
Mag, is very stooped. His flowing white hair 
and stubby beard, together with his feeble move¬ 
ments, accentuates the frailty of old age. His 
clothing, though shabby, is neater far than Mag’s. 
There is an air of flippant independence about 
him and it is easily seen from his easy going air 
that he is a mixture of irresponsibility and 
humor. 

Mrs. Frederick —A cultured, refined, young woman 
who possesses a beautiful understanding of peo¬ 
ple of all classes. 

Mr. Wallace —A very arrogant, pompous man of 
about forty-five years. 


(3) 


4 


Tombs 


Marthie —A radiant youngster of about four. She 
is dressed in a very sombre ill-fitting dress, but 
her golden mop of tousled hair makes her lovely 
in spit^ of it. 


SETTING: 

Scene —A country graveyard in a coal-mining 
town. On left center is an unfinished grave; 
the remainder of the stage from center on back 
to upstage is filled with various other graves 
marked with various sized monuments, the ma¬ 
jority of which are small and very plain. In the 
distance on a slight incline a weather-beaten 
bench leans under a lone leafless tree. 

Time —About five-thirty on an autumn afternoon. 
Sunset colors are just beginning to glow in the 
sky. The colors grow in intensity until the 
climax of the play at which time the sky 
darkens. 

The old man and Mag are discovered working on 
an unfinished grave. Mag works quite methodically 
while her companion only digs spasmodically. 


Tombs 


5 


Old Man —She’s chased me away from her old 
peach tree for the last time, he, he, he! (His shrill 
laughter is interspersed with sneezing.) 

Mag —What’cha talkin’ about? 

Old Man —Ain’t old lady Williams to be buried 
here tomorrow? 

Mag —It’s likely she will. 

Old Man —Likely? Huh! She’s dead, ain’t she? 

Mag —Not quite. They say she’s purty low and 
I didn’t figger she’d last long now. Thought we 
might as well get her grave out of the way. For 
there’s bound to be a purty heavy rush on fur quite 
a while. 

Old Man (Chuckles and slaps himself on the 
knee)—^Why, Mag, it would be a joke on you if 
she didn’t die! 

Mag —It’ll fit somebody else then, maybe old 
David Jessups; he can have it if he gets here first. 
I’d like to cover him up so he can’t pester the pore 
folks over yonder. 

Old Man —They say he’s already picked out his 
casket and his layin’ away suit. 

Mag —He’d do better to pick out his prayers and 
start repentin’. The black scoundrel, the stingy old 
cheat—him a rollin’ in gold, and he wouldn’t givp 
his wife no money to buy a tombstone for her pore 
old mother’s grave! I tell you, he’d better be think- 
in’ about where he’s goin’ termorrow! 


6 


Tombs 


Old Man —Termorrow? Why, Mag! He can’t 
go no wheres termorrow, he’s most nigh all para¬ 
lyzed, they say. 

Mag —Aw, doncha know what I mean—the ter¬ 
morrow the tombstones be talkin’ about. 

Old Man —He, he, he (sneezes), they can’t talk, 
Mag. 

Mag —Don’t be a nut—they have readin’ on ’em, 
don’t they? 

Old Man (Laughs loudly and ends up by sneez¬ 
ing)—You can’t read, Mag! 

Mag —I can’t, can’t I? Mebbe, I can’t (sarcasti¬ 
cally), but ain’t that oldest Peter’s child showed me 
some of the verses on the tombstones? Ain’t she 
learned me what they all say? 

Old Man (Deferentially)—Wal, wal, Mag, I never 
heard that before, you allers wuz one to learn things. 

Mag (Pleased but derisive)—Hump! 

Old Man (Walks among the graves on right 
stage)—Now this one has a lot of this writin’ on 
it; whut’s it say? 

Mag —A lie! 

Old Man (Startled he sneezes)—W—w—whut? 

Mag —A lie. Thet’s Sister Peasley’s grave and 
thet marker there says, **None knew her but to love 
her.” She’s the one thet put my dorgs in the pound. 

Old Man —I reckon I wuz away when thet hap- 


Tombs 


7 


pened. (He continues to potter around among the 
stones, peering at the various ones.) 

Mag —I reckon you wuz. (Putting down shovel 
and going over to center stage.) I like this one. 

Old Man —It’s a fancy one, ain’t it? Must have 
cost a heap. 

Mag —Reckon it did; Miss Marthie’s buried under 
here. Remember she jest had one arm? (with pride). 
She uster ask me to come to church. Made me a 
dress one time—with embroidery on it!—Never 
wore it—it’s too purty—never went to church either 
—not cause I didn’t like Miss Marthie . . . 

Old Man —Is this writin’ same ez the other? 

Mag (Shakes head negatively)—I like this ’un best 
of all the tombstones. It says, '*She did unto others 
like she would have ’em do unto her.” Now ain’t 
that purty? **She did unto others as she would 
have ’em do unto her.” You know I’d like that on 
my own tombstone. 

Old Man (Impressed but wanting to appear 
jovial)—^Wal, wal, Mag, I ain’t much good on writ¬ 
in’, but if I’m ’round I’ll see whut I kin do fer you. 

Mag (Returns to her digging)—Quit yer fussin’. 

Old Man —Here (gesturing to Mag). This ’un 
ain’t got much on it, atall. 

Mag (Remains in the grave as she stares across 
stage at the marker)—It says, *'He has risen.” 


8 


Tombs 


Old Man —What? Thet don’t sound right. Are 
you real sure you ain’t mixed up on this ’un? 

Mag —Sure. 

Old Man —Whut’s it mean then—**He has risen?” 

Mag —It means that Deacon Jones—he’s buried 
under there, he wuz sech a good man on this earth 
thet when he died and wuz buried under the ground 
there warn’t nothin’ not even the Devil could keep 
him down. He went to Heaven sure. He tried to 
keep them church wimmin’ from pesterin’ me about 
the youngun’. 

(Enter Marthie from right stage. She jumps hap¬ 
pily over various graves as she comes across stage 
to Mag. As she reaches impulsively to Mag she drops 
the ragged sweater she was carrying. As she stands 
playing with the shovel which Mag still retains; Mag 
fondles the child’s hair lovingly.) 

Old Man —You’ll have somethin’ like **He is risen” 
on your own tombstone, Mag. I don’t know thet 
I ever mentioned it to you, but you have been a 
mighty good old woman all yer life (sneezes) you’ve 
allers treated me like a gentleman. 

Mag —Yeah, when you’re ever around! 

Old Man —And takin’ thet kid to look after, not 
everybody would have done thet. You’ve got your 
hands full a tendin’ this here graveyard, an’ she’s 
been a lot of trouble. Mebbe it’d been best to have 
let them church wimmin’ send her to thet Asylum! 

Mag —Sssh! (looks warily at the child who has 
strayed over to a monument decorated with a tiny 


Tombs 


9 


marble lamb). She ain’t the kind of a young’un to 
live in no asylum! 

Old Man —Wal, I guess this place is a bit livelier 
than an Asylum. The young’un has been here a 
long time, about six years, ain’t she? 

Mag —^Why, its four years tonight—it don’t seem 
thet long. Seems just the other day when thet 
man buried her Maw right up there under thet tree. 
It was a queer burin’—the queerest I ever seen. She 
wuz sure a white corpse, the whitest I ever seen, 
an’ her husband was almost as white. There weren’t 
no mourners a tall and thet man din’t sob or nothin’. 
I tell you it wuz still and queer. You know how 
you sorter feel that sumpin’ is goin’ ter happen? Wal, 
every time thet lightin’ flashed, I jest felt it—I 
felt that sumpin’ wuz goin’ to happen. An’ warn’t 
I right? Jest as soon as I had filled in the grave 
thet queer man of hers picked up a bundle thet had 
been near him all the time an’ says sorter hurried 
like—**Keep this ’till I come for it.” He thought 
she’d be dead when I opened the bundle or she’d 
die soon enough, I reckon. 

Old Man —Wal, wal, won’t he be surprised some 
day? 

Mag —What’cha mean? 

Old Man (Sneezes)—When he comes back. 

Mag (Fiercely)—He ain’t cornin’ back! 

Old Man —Why, when did he die, Mag? 

Mag —He ain’t dead—not that I knows of, but he 


10 


Tombs 


ain’t cornin’ back! Ain’t there a God who watches 
over this graveyard? Sure there is, an’ don’t he 
know how thet man left thet young’un? I know, 
I know he ain’t cornin’ back! (Mag stands staring 
into space while the old man feebly walks over to 
the grave and begins unenthusiastically to dig. In 
a moment Mag seems as if she awakes to the realities 
and picks up her shovel and together they dig on in 
silence for a moment until the Old Man is seized 
with a coughing and sneezing spasm.) 

Mag —Here you, you ain’t had time to get tough¬ 
ened to this. Aire yer feet wet? Git up here and 
set a while. Tonight I’ll mix up a bit of menthola- 
tum an’ turpentine with thet bacon-grease an’ coal- 
oil an’ rub it in on yer chest an’ you’ll be good as 
new te-morrow. 

OU Man (Plaintively)—I ain’t takin’ nothin’ 
cathin’, am I, Mag? 

Mag —I reckon as how you’re not—thet influenza 
epidemic is sure fatal, they say, we buried the Bung’s 
baby this mornin’. (She jerks hand back to a small 
unmarked grave which is left of center.) 

Old Man —^Whut if Marthie should take it? 

Mag —I don’t—I don’t feel like she will. (She looks 
around for the child, sees the ragged sweater of the 
child’s near the unfinished grave, picks it up and 
goes toward right stage looking for the child. She 
calls: Marthie! Marthie! (She gestures to child off 
extrem.e right) Marthie! (The child enters from 
right stage; Mag seats herself on a tombstone while 


Tombs 


11 


the child stands by her and plays with the small 
knob of wool on top of Mag’s stocking-cap): Its 
gettin’ cool, it is, an* little folks don’t want to catch 
no cold! (She buttons the sweater on the child.) We 
ain’t got no time to play doctor, no we ain’t. (She 
feels the child’s forehead.) You’re alright, I reckon! 
You been swingin’ up there on thet grape-vine, ain’t 
cha? (Caresses child’s hair gently). Wal, run on to 
yer swingin’, and keep thet sweater on, and when I 
finish diggin’ and it gits real dark, we’ll have thet 
surprise! (Marthie gives Mag a childish embrace 
which Mag clumsily attempts to return. As the 
child runs happily off right stage Mag stands watch¬ 
ing her.) 

Old Man —What’cha mean surprise, Mag? 

Mag —Its the young’un’s birthday, ain’t it? She’s 
the kind of a young’un thet oughter have really 
birthdays ... I never had none. 

Old Man —Aire there goin’ to be a cake? 

Mag —I wish there wuz. There warn’t nobody 
I could ask to bake me one. Now, I reckon if Miss 
Marthie had been alive, she’d a done it. 

Old Man —Well what’cha— 

Mag —I got her a box of Cracker-Jack and a box 
of Animal Crackers! 

Old Man —Wal, wal, ain’t thet fine! 

Mag —An’ the Animal Crackers ’ll last a long 
time, too. (Going over near right of Miss Marthie’s 
grave.) I didn’t know where to put ’em to keep 


12 


Tombs 


her from findin’ ’em, so I hid ’em under this 
bucket— 

Old Man —Let’s take a look, Mag. 

(Enter Mrs. Frederick left stage. She comes in 
haltingly and at her first words Mag and the Old 
Man are startled.) 

Mrs. Frederick —Am I speaking to Mrs. Maggie 
Combs? 

Mag (Without moving)—Aire you one of them 
wimmin’ to see about the asylum? 

Mrs. Frederick —Why, no—I, its— 

Mag (Putting down the bucket and striding over 
to her; sticks out hand after first wiping it on her 
trousers). I’m Mag, what’cha want? 

Old Man (Comfortingly)—Be ye cornin’ to see 
after a grave? 

Mag —If you want one in a hurry like. (Pointing 
to the unfinished grave.) 

Mrs. Frederick —Oh, no, Mrs. Combs, it isn’t that. 
I didn’t come to see about a grave. I came—I 
came because I heard—that— 

Mag (Laughs shortly)—I reckon I know now. 
You jest wanted ter see me. Some folks calls me 
a character. 

Old Man —That’s right, there ain’t a stranger 
thet comes ter town fer any spell whut don’t come 
out ter see Mag! He, he, he! 

Mrs. Frederick —I suppose they come because it is 


Tombs 


13 


very unusual to find a woman who is brave enough 
to dig graves. 

Mag —Why you don’t have to be brave—you 
gotta be strong, thet’s all— 

Old Man —Mag’s strong, she is! 

Mag (Going back to work on the grave). You 
might as well set yourself down on thet marker, 
there. They are right easy to rest on. 

Mrs. Frederick —Have you been doing this work 
very long, Mrs. Combs? 

Mag —Nigh onto thirty years! An’ I ain’t found 
a man yet thet can dig a straighter and deeper 
grave than me. 

Mrs. Frederick —I’m sure it must be a very diffi¬ 
cult task as well as a very sad one. 

Mag (Puzzled)—^Why, it ain’t sad! I’m allers glad 
to bury them folks that is wickid,—and them thet 
is good—why they is ready to die, so why be sad 
about thet? 

Mrs. Frederick —But its so very sad to see and 
hear the mourners. 

Mag —Mebbe, mebbe; but its enough to make you 
laugh sometimes, peers like its allers them thet’s 
done the least thet howls the loudest. Now there’s 
old Mose Andrews—he most nigh cried his eyes out 
when I buried his wife over yander, he even put 
**We shall meet again,” on her tombstone, an’ three 
days after thet he’s married agin! (The Old Man 


14 


Tombs 


laughs shrilly at that! Mrs. F. appears ill at ease 
and tries to say something, but Mag seems to have 
found an outlet for her reminiscenses in the person 
of Mrs. F.). Its sorter hard to bury the little ’uns 
sometimes; them’s thet are fat and happy, it don’t 
seem right fer ’em to be laid away so soon; but the 
skinny, scrawny young’uns—them thet ain’t treated 
right by their maws and paws—I guess its better 
fer ’em. Thet grave over there—(Points to small 
grave). Thet’s the Bung’s baby thet wuz buried this 
mornin’. Now I reckon its a good thing thet the in- 
fluenzie took him off, his paw can’t make enough 
to feed the six others thet’s left an’ he beats ’em 
when he’s drunk. 

Mrs. Frederick (Shuddering)—Is this epidemic 
that you speak of so very serious? 

Mag —I figger its bad enough. The teacher up 
yander had to shet down school cause there weren’t 
enough young’uns left to recite. 

Mrs. Frederick (Rising from the tombstone) — 
Are any of your family ill? 

Old Man —I wuz jest tellin’ Mag when you come 
in thet I wuz afraid I might be catchin’ sumpin’— 

Mag —Aw, the the Old Man is allers ailin’, but 
Marthie an’ me, we are allers pretty fit. 

Mrs. Frederick —You have children? 

Mag —Yes’um, I got a young’un! 

Mrs. Frederick —Mrs. Com— 

Mag (Putting down shovel and climbing out of 


Tombs 


15 


the grave)—An’ you oughter see her—she’s smart- 
er’n a whip. I’m goin’ ter send her to school to larn 
her letters. She’ll have ter walk quite a fer piece, 
but she’s goin’ ter be lamed. 

Mrs. Frederick —And you—you—want her to go 
to school? 

Mag —You went to school didn’t you? Ain’cha 
glad you went? Thought so. Miss Marthie went ter 
school, too, Marthie’s named fer her. I want Mar¬ 
thie ter be jest like her—she wuz a lady. The 
young’un’s birthday is ter night. We’re gonna have 
a kind of party—me an’ her an’ the Old Man. 

Old Man —Yes, we sure are! Why Mag— 

(Enter Mr. Wallace. He has an arrogant confi¬ 
dent air and appears to actually look down on every¬ 
one he speaks to. He nods as courteously as he is 
able to Mrs. F., leans indolently against Miss Mar¬ 
thie’s tombstone while he calmly looks about and 
stares at Mag and the Old Man with undisguised 
curiosity.) 

Mr. Wallace —Well, I see you found her alright. 
(Walking over to Mag and speaking with an af¬ 
fectedly polite air.) And this is the Mrs. Margue¬ 
rite Combs I have heard so much of? (Mag immedi¬ 
ately on the defensive gives him a half contemp¬ 
tuous look and continues to dig.) 

Old Man —Thet’s Mag, alright (sneezes pitifully.) 
Be ye cornin’ fer a grave fer some corpse? (Mag 
stops a moment to listen for an answer.) 


16 


Tombs 


Mr. Wallace (Cynically)—A grave for a corpse? 
Well, I hadn’t planned on this little interlude. Let 
me see just what style graves have you in stock 
today? (He goes over closer to the Old Man and 
looks critically at the unfinished grave. Mag has 
put down her spade and moved a trifle back where 
she pulls at clumps of weeds growing near the 
graves and continues to inspect Mr. W.). This 
one is very nice, but I should prefer one a little 
less Victorian. A shade more pictorial. 

Old Man —Don’t reckon you kin dig them kinds, 
kin you Mag? 

Mag (Coming down stage by Mr. W. with an air 
of decision)—Aire you wantin’ a grave or not? 

Mr. Wallace (Sensing Mag’s antagonism)—Well, 
no! On second thought, its growing so late I shall 
have to postpone my selection. Another day, perhaps, 
Mrs. Combs. 

M^g—Folks don’t come out here to make light 
of buryin*. 

Mr. Wallace —No? Well then, you must excuse 
my extreme ignorance of graveyard etiquedte. 
(Turns laughingly to Mrs. F.). I really shall have 
to be coached. 

Mrs. Frederick (Kindly)—Really, Mr. Wallace, I 
can hardly see the necessity for such flippant trivial¬ 
ities. 

Mr. Wallace (Drawing himself up an inch high¬ 
er and laughing indulgently)—Dear dear, I seem to 


Tombs 


17 


be drawing reproaches down upon my poor gray 
head. I was presuming that after such an ordeal as 
you anticipated a little er—a—light conversation 
would be needed to calm the turbulent waters. 

Mrs, Frederick —I have not had time to even 
mention the matter. 

Mr. Wallace —Not had time? Oho, I see (looking 
at watch.) You are getting sentimental. 

Mrs. Frederick —I can easily see now that it is a 
problem that deserves the very highest type of sen¬ 
timent. 

Mr. Wallace —So? Very well, but it is growing 
late and you reaUze that it is impossible to spend 
the night in this hole? (Mrs. F. nods). I shall 
manage then, so we can be getting away from here. 

Mrs, Frederick (Starting towards Mrs. Combs.) 
Mr. Wallace, I prefer to— 

Mr. Wallace (Unmindful of Mrs. F.). Mrs. 
Combs, (Mag looks at him steadily, still on the de¬ 
fensive) do you have a small child around here— 
a girl—^you have been keeping? 

Mag (Stiffens with a start)—Yes. 

Old Man —^Be ye speaking of Marthie? 

Mag (Jerks head toward the Old Man indicating 
that he is to be still and steadily looks at Mr. W. 
watching for his next move.) 

Mr. Wallace —You have had the child about four 
years now, haven’t you? 


18 


Tombs 


Mag —I reckon you know that well enough. 

Mr. Wallace —And while you’ve taken care of 
the child to the best of your ability during these 
four years, it has surely occurred to you, Mrs. 
Combs, that there might be someone who could 
care for the child in a more suitable manner. 

Mag —I ain’t goin’ ter give her up to no asylum. 

Mr. Wallace —^Come, come. 

Mag —She ain’t the kind of a young’un to live in 
no asylum, I tell yer. She wouldn’t be happy there; 
why I’ve had her all her life—I’ve done all she’s 
ever had done fer her, then ain’t I her maw? No! I 
tell yer, she ain’t goin’ to no asylum. 

Mr. Wallace —Mrs. Combs, if you would be so 
kind as to stop all this chattering and listen to 
me. I might have an opportunity to explain that 
I have nothing to do with the asylum you speak 
of. (Mag still on her guard is much relieved.) You 
can remember quite well the night the child’s moth¬ 
er was buried here— 

Old Man (Extremely anxious to talk)—It wuz 
four years ago, ternight, it— 

Mr. Wallace (Ignoring the Old Man)—You also 
remember quite well the man who left the child 
that night. Well, see if you understand this,—that 
man, the father of the child you have been keeping, 
is the brother of this lady. Well? (impatiently.) 
Must I be even plainer? Mrs. Combs, she is the 
aunt of this child. 

M^g—Well? 


Tombs 


19 


Mr. Wallace —Evidently you know now why we 
are here. 

Mag —I ain’t goin’ ter let you have nothin’ ter 
do with Marthie. 

Mr. Wallace —Be careful, Mrs. Combs, that is a 
statement you have no legal right to make.—The 
law— 

Mag —^Whut’s the law got ter do with me an’ 
Marthie? Whut’s it ever done? The law didn’t do 
nothin’ about punishin’ thet man thet run off and 
left the young’un, did it? The law didn’t do nothin’ 
about supportin’ the young’un, did it? All that the 
law would do when I wuz a needin’ help wuz try 
to muddle things up by trying ter send the young’un 
off to an Asylum! Don’cha say law ter me. 

Old Man —You’d better be takin’ yourself off, 
you had! Mag is strong, she is! 

Mr. Wallace —That’s enough old fellow, you keep 
out of this! See? It is by the law that we must be 
governed, Mrs. Combs. 

Mag —Alright, I’m governed as you calls it by a 
law. Its the law on these tombstones. Thet there 
law you speak of ain’t got nothin’ ter say ter me. 
You see that there tombstone? See thet writin’? It 
says *'She did unto others as she would have ’em do 
unto her.” Thet’s the law I tries ter follow. I 
been good to Marthie, treated her right, like I wisht 
I’d been treated when I wuz a young’un. Thet’s 
why I ain’t goin’ ter let her be put in no asylum. 


20 


Tombs 


Thet’s why (deliberately) I ain’t goin’ to let you 
have nothin’ ter do with Marthie! 

Mr. Wallace —It doesn’t matter whether you de¬ 
sire to follow the law I speak of or not, Mrs. Combs, 
but it does matter that I have authority to make 
you do it! You have no legal claim on the child at 
all; you are not even a relative— 

Mag —I’ve done all thet’s ever been fer the 
young’un. 

Mr. Wallace —Oh very well, but let’s try to be 
reasonable enough to understand that regardless of 
your generosity the law always gives first considera¬ 
tion to the relatives. 

Mag —No matter whut they’ve done, no matter 
whut they are? (Angrily). Take yer old lyin’ and 
schemin’ law and get out of here, do you hear? Get 
out! Yer tryin’ ter pull the same law on me thet thet 
scoundrel of a liar did to Widow Jones,—turned 
her and her baby out of the house right after Jones 
wuz buried out here, jest ’cause the law said it wuz 
right! Git out, I tell yuh! 

Mr. Wallace —Perhaps you’ve heard of such a 
thing as a jail? You might enjoy staying a while 
there until you get over your present attitude to¬ 
ward the law? 

Mag —They don’t put folks in jail fer being kind 
to little kids. 

Mr. Wallace —If you are so determined to claim 
the child—just where are your papers? 


Tombs 


21 


Mag (Puzzled)—Whut papers? 

Mr. Wallace —The legal papers that give you the 
right to say the child is yours. 

Mag —I—I—I don’t have none. 

Mr. Wallace (Laughs shortly)—Well? 

Mag —Where—are—your papers? 

Mr. Wallace —Er—a—er enough of this ignorant 
chatter. 

Mag —I may be ignorant but I know whut’s 
right. 

Mr. Wallace —Then if you are so extremely eth¬ 
ical, call the child, we must be getting out of here. 
(Mag does not respond.) Well? Well? What in the 
world do you want with a child here in this God 
forsaken graveyard—keep her here so that she can 
work for you some day—dig graves? 

(Mag stands as if stunned; Mrs. F. seems to be 
deeply moved by the last statement and comes 
resolutely over to Mr. W.). 

Mrs. Frederick —I think this has gone far enough, 
and if you will be so considerate as to wait out there 
I shall try to make amends for some of the things 
you have said. 

Mr. Wallace (Blusteringly)—You don’t know 
what an obstinate class this is— 

Mrs. Frederick (Motioning for him to leave) — 
That will do please. 


22 


Tombs 


Mr. Wallace —You will need me before this is 
over! 

Mrs. Frederick (Going over to Mag stands by the 
grave)—I am sorry, so sorry that such hard things 
have been said. I should have told you at first; 
but there are things yet that have not been ex¬ 
plained, won’t you listen to me please? 

Mag (Angrily)—I’d rather see the child go to 
the asylum than fer him to take the young’un. No¬ 
body’s goin’ ter take her! She’s mine! I tell yer! 

Old Man —Mag, Mag, you wanna be risen, 
don’cha? Mebbe you’d do better to let ’em take 
the young’un! 

Mag (Pleadingly)—Doncha know I don’t want 
her to dig graves? I wouldn’t let her do that. Its 
alright fer me, but she’s different—I allers wanted 
a young’un—that’s all—not—to—dig graves. 

Mrs. Frederick —I know that. You want her to 
have all the nice things in life that you have never 
had an opportunity to have, (softly). That is part 
of your law in this graveyard, isn’t it? 

Mag —Thet’s whut I wuz thinkin’ of—Marthie 
—she’s named fer Miss Marthie thet there law is on 
the tombstone fer—she’ll be like Miss Marthie when 
she grows up. 

Mrs. Frederick —And don’t you think, Mrs. 
Combs, that if I tried very hard and obeyed the 
law—your law, I might help Martha to be the kind 
of a Miss Martha you know? 


Tombs 


23 


Mag (Startled)—You? Mebbe you could, but I 
ain’t goin’ ter let thet man have nothin’ ter do 
with her . . , He’s your man, ain’t he? 

Mrs, Frederick —He is my lawyer. 

Mag —He ain't your man? 

Mrs. Frederick —My husband is dead. 

Mag —^What’cha bringin’ thet lawyer here for? 
Don’cha know thet I kin do right, I kin mind 
my own business without one of ’em tryin’ ter boss 
me? (Turns her face away from Mrs. F.). 

Mrs, Frederick —Mrs. Combs, I know that you 
do not need anyone to make you obey the law, I 
know that the only law you have in your heart is 
stronger far than all the laws in the law books. 
(Mag still keeps her face turned away). Mrs. Combs, 
look at me please! (Still Mag averts her face). Mar¬ 
tha’s father is my brother. 

Mag (Laughs bitterly)—The young’un’s paw? 
I’ve never prayed much, but ever since thet night 
I’ve prayed that he wouldn’t come back. Thought 
God answered prayers. (Laughs again). 

Mrs, Frederick —He won’t come back—he is dead. 
(Mag with a start looks at IVIN'S. F.). 

Mrs. Frederick —I had not seen him for six years; 
he did not always obey the law—^your law, until 
last week when he was—dying—he called me to 
tell about Martha and asked that I bring her up as 
my own child. He knew that I, like you, Mrs. 
Combs, have always wanted a young one. Oh, I 


24 


Tombs 


know it is hard, but can’t you understand? Don’t 
you see how very much I want Martha? My own 
brother’s child? 

Mag —Its hard (she gets up heavily from the 
mound of dirt). I reckon it is hard, you wantin’ 
Marthie when I want her too. You wouldn’t take 
her away from me when she thinks I’m her maw, 
would you? 

Mrs. Frederick —Mrs. Combs you said it was 
hard—hard that we both want Martha. It is— 
(brokenly) when I came here this evening I did 
not expect to find—you wanting Martha—want¬ 
ing a young one and loving her, too. I see now, 
that it is not for me to say which one of us should 
have her. I shall not take her without your consent. 
Martha is yours now—and her future is in your 
hands. Forget everything that the lawyer said, and 
just remember that you think Martha will be bet¬ 
ter off here—why I will go away and never come 
back again. But remember, Mrs. Combs, that I, 
too, will be good to Martha—remember that I can 
love, too. 

Mag —^Well, you’re being square about Marthie, 
alright, alright. An’ you mean thet if I want to 
keep Marthie you’ll leave me alone, an’ thet lawyer 
he won’t come back again? You know I want her! 
Why since I’ve had Marthie I wouldn’t know how 
to get along without her. Of course, I want to 
keep her! She’s my young’un! (Mrs. F. half turns 
as if to leave as Mag goes and stands by Miss Mar¬ 
tha’s grave). I’ve allers wanted Marthie ter be like 


Tombs 


25 


her,—mebbe it would be treatin’ her squarer ter 
give her a chanct. This graveyard—its alright fer 
me, but she’s different. She needs ter know her 
letters, sing in the choir at meetin’ an’ wear em¬ 
broidered dresses. I don’t want her to dig graves— 
you know thet? Its alright fer me—but she’s so 
young, an’ (resolutely) I’d rather you’d take her 
now. Then I won’t have ter think about her goin’. 
Yes, I want Marthie! But I’m not goin’ ter keep 
her. (She starts away but turns). Its her birthday 
ternight—^you’ll have her a cake an’ candles, mebbe? 
(Mrs. F. nods). (Mag goes to the hiding place and 
draws out the surprise.) I wuz figgerin’ on usin’ 
this at our party. Don’t have no use fer ’em now. 
Marthie’ll be tickled with ’em. You take ’em, won’t 
yer? (She goes to right stage and calls.) Marthie!— 
Marthie! (The child runs in and Mag takes her by 
the hand and leads her over to Mrs. F.). 

Mrs, Frederick —And this is Martha? (She stoops 
to the child, holds out her arms pleadingly. Martha 
comes closer as though irresistibly drawn to Mrs. F. 
She seems quite overcome by awe and curiosity. She 
fingers Mrs. F.’s dress and childishly pats her cheek.) 

Mag —Marthie! (The child comes over to Mag 
who stoops awkwardly and puts her arm around 
the child.) Remember thet surprise we wuz goin* 
ter have ternight? Well, yer a goin’ ter get it alright, 
an’ its a lot bigger surprise than I thought it’d be. 
See thet lady? Well, she’s gonna take you to thet 
surprise an’ Marthie, you’ll get ter go ridin’ in— 
(Mag looks appealing at Mrs. F.). 


26 


Tombs 


Mrs. Frederick —In a car. 

Mag: —Yes, in a car, Marthie! Jest think you’ll 
get ter ride in a great fine car, mebbe as big and 
shiny as the hearse! Now won’t that be nice? (The 
child gives Mag an ecstatic hug; Mag gets up heavily, 
her face drawn and tired). You’ll mebbe stay a 
while with the lady, Marthie, ’cause there’s gonna 
be lots of surprises—so many that you’ll have ter 
stay awhile ter find out whut’ll they be like. (Mag 
leads the child over to Mrs. F. and speaks to her.) 
An’ you’ll remember about Miss Marthie? You won’t 
forget her? 

Mrs. Frederick (Brokenly, and taking hold of 
Mag’s arm.) Mrs. Combs! You brave, brave woman! 
You said you never prayed much,—but won’t you 
pray a little for me? Pray that I may be like Miss 
Martha—and like you! (Mrs. F. walks hurriedly 
off stage with the child but just as they reach the 
unfinished grave Martha impulsively runs back to 
Mag and gives her a last embrace.) 

The Old Man curiously follows and stands peer¬ 
ing after them. The sunset colors in the sky have 
gradually faded until only the darkening clouds 
can now be seen. Mag stands brokenly staring for 
a last glimpse of Martha, and as the Old Man sym¬ 
pathetically totters over and sits down on the small 
marker near the unfinished grave and lights his 
pipe, Mag methodicallv walks over to the grave and 
renews the digging as the curtain falls. 


^he inspiration 

By 

Billie Oneal 

Prize play in One-act Play Contest 
held in Wichita Falls, Texas. 

Production rights are reserved by 
the author and permission to produce 
must be obtained from her. 


( 27 ) 







INSPIRATION 


Characters: Mrs. McCormack, an Irish 

woman; Gertrude Brown a struggling artist; 
Ethel, her younger sister; Mrs. Van Alystine. 

Time: Late afternoon of a spring day. 

Place: Living room, bed room and studio com¬ 
bined of a small New York apartment. The 
stage is dim when the curtain rises, made so by 
the scarcity of windows and light in the apart¬ 
ment. The room gives evidence that Gertrude, 
a person of artistic temperament, has, with 
small means, made the best of her living sur¬ 
roundings. A bit of cretonne here, a soft lamp 
there, has turned what would otherwise have 
been a bare, desolate room into one of cozy 
comfort. At the rise of the curtain, Ethel, a 
young girl, is busily engaged in putting the 
room in order, pausing once to look at a half 
finished painting mounted on an easel in an 
adjoining room. The painting is not placed so 
that the audience can see it. She shakes her 
head as she looks at it and returns to her work 
with a perplexed look on her face. Outside the 
door is heard the angry loud tones of Mrs. Mc¬ 
Cormack. 


(29) 


30 


Inspiration 


(Outside) 

Mrs, McCormack —^Begittin’ out of here, ye little 
brats, and leave me Pat alone. Fll be calling the 
janitor and then ye’ll clear out. 

E//?el (Listening)^—Mrs. McCormack running 
the children out of the hallway again. I wonder 
if she can be coming in here. 

Mrs. McCormack (Opening the door, calling 
loudly)—Are ye at home? I thought I seen ye go 
down the street as I was hanging me wet clothes 
on the fire escape. 

Ethel —It was Gertrude, I guess. She left a 
short while ago. 

Mrs, McCormack (Comes farther in the room, 
drying hands on her apron and wiping eyes)—So it 
was. When I came in I couldn’t tell whither ’twas 
ye or ye sister Gertrude, ’twas so dark in here. My! 
but these apartments do git dark early in the 
afternoon, don’t they? (dusts chair.) It’s a shame 
the hall has all the afternoon sun and we git none. 
Bits of health going to waste, I thinks to me self 
when I see the bright sunlight filling the hall. 

Ethel (Turning on lights)—I thought I heard 
you in the hallway. 

Mrs, McCormack —^Yis, me little Pat was beggin’t 
to sit by the hall winder, so that he might see the 
sun go behind the tall buildings. The minit its 
gone he cries **Mither, Mither, the sun’s gone to 
sleep.” And its me that’s willing to let him think 
it sleeps. 


Inspiration 


31 


Ethel —Poor little fellow! Is he any better? 

Mrs, McCormack (Shakes head)—No. How me 
heart does ache for the lad. 

Ethel —What was the doctors last report about 
Pat? 

Mrs. McCormack (Who has been assisting Ethel, 
now taking her seat)—^He says the air and sunshine 
would be makin’ him well. 

Ethel —Air and sunshine? There’s plenty of air 
and sunshine, Mrs. McCormack. The world is 
full of it. 

Mrs. McCormack —But what can I do? It has 
taken all of the money since the lad was hurt to pay 
the Doctor. And then me man was laid off three 
months because of the strike. There’s no money. 
’Tis the sorrow of me life to see Pat wastin’ away, 
beggin’ to be carried out among the trees and me 
able to do nothin’, (wiping eyes). The Doctor says 
the warm sunshine might cure his aching bones. 

Ethel —Poor little Pat! (Goes to window). Spring 
is here and everywhere there is life and sunshine. 
Certainly it is the time to be happy. God never 
meant for any of us to be otherwise (sighs). 

Mrs. McCormack —Not even ye look happy to¬ 
day. Ye who always sing and smile. It’s many a 
smile ye has brought me when me heart was heavy 
(waits and watches her). It’s busy ye seems as 
usual. 

Ethel —Yes, we have been busy. 


32 


Inspiration 


Mrs, McCormack —Some people always have im¬ 
portant things to be doin’. And I don’t niver seem 
to have nothin’ more important than a few grocer¬ 
ies to buy and Pat and me ither children to see 
after. I wuzn’t meant to be of much importance 
anyway. 

Ethel —Don’t say that, Mrs. McCormack. 

Mrs. McCormack —Has Mrs. Gertrude sold that 
painting of her’s yet? What’s it called—the one she 
has down at the studio? 

Ethel —It’s called ''Childhood.” 

Mr^. McCormack —"Childhood” that’s the one. 
Names somehow don’t niver stay with me. 

Ethel —No, she hasn’t sold it yet. 

Mrs. McCormack —No, ye say? Sure, it must be 
hard on ye and most of all on Mrs. Gertrude with 
the livelihood of ye both dependent on her efforts. 

Ethel —She sometimes says it is. 

Mrs. McCormack —’Twould be a pity for ye to 
have to move from this apartment after ye have 
made things so cozy—but poor as it is there’s some 
what’s cheaper. And when ye money is gone, it 
most likely stays gone. 

Ethel —It is true we haven’t much left to live on. 
I don’t know what we shall do if Gertrude doesn’t 
sell her painting soon. Each day she calls the stu¬ 
dio and it’s always the same answer. 

Mrs. McCormack —Ye do say? 


Inspiration 


33 


Ethel —Mrs. McCormack, (Ethel hesitates as if 
undecided) I feel that I must tell you about the 
the other. 

Mrs, McCormack —(Immediately getting inter¬ 
ested when she thinks there is something new for 
her to learn)—^What ither? Go on, child, I always 
did like to know all there wuz to know. (Moving 
forward to the edge of her chair). 

Ethel —Well, you see, it is this way. Gertrude 
would never forgive me if she knew I had told you. 
She says you couldn’t understand, that only edu¬ 
cated can— 

Mrs, McCormack —^Well maybe so, maybe so, but 
anyway ye go ahead and tell me, child. ’Twill be 
makin’ ye feel better. 

Ethel —Gertrude has been working for months on 
another painting—one she hopes to enter in a big 
contest. 

Mrs, McCormack —Do tell! 

Ethel —If she can only win this it will be every¬ 
thing to us—money—success. It will mean that we 
can have the things we need and want. I know she 
can win it if— 

Mrs. McCormack —Go on child, don’t keep me 
waiting. 

Ethel —If—if—Oh, Mrs. McCormack, you must 
never let her know I told you. She scolds me for 
confiding in you because she says you can’t under¬ 
stand. 


34 


Inspiration 


Mrs, McCormack —Go on child, sure it’s listening 
I am. 

Ethel —If she can only get an inspiration she can 
quickly do the work. She seems to be terribly 
worried—more worried than anytime since her sor¬ 
row. Sometimes she will work for days and I will 
think she is getting what she wants, then with one 
stroke of the brush she will ruin it all, throw her 
brushes down suddenly, put on her hat and be gone 
for hours. 

Mrs. McCormack (Emphatically)—That’s me way 
of doin’ things, too. If they don’t suit me I tear 
them up and start all over again. 

Ethel —Do you? 

Mrs. McCormack —Now when I made Mary’s 
last dress, I had it ready for the hem. It didn’t 
look right so I ripped it up and did it all over 
again. 

Ethel —I can’t see anything wrong with what she 
does. It all seems wonderful to me but there is 
something about it that doesn’t please her. 

Mrs. McCormack —Yis, I understand. 

Ethel —For some reason she doesn’t seem to 
have hit on the right idea. I hear her saying over 
to herself: **If I should just get an inspiration—a 
big human idea.” 

Mrs. McCormack —Tis helping her would be me- 
self if I could get the idea. Now there’s some things 


Inspiration 


35 


I don’t have to look at more than once to see what 
is needed. 

Ethel —You can tell for yourself how disappointed 
she was today (they go to the door and stand 
looking in at painting in the other room). There 
is the work of a week, ruined in a few minutes. 

Mrs. McCormack (Turning head first one way 
and then another)—^Well that has the best of me. 
What can be the matter of it is more than I can 
teU. 

Ethel —That is what I say. 

(Gertrude enters unobserved and stands looking 
at the pair). 

Mrs. McCormack —^Andrew Flannigan worked 
half a day on me sink tryin’ to find the leak and I 
jist walked up to it, gave it one look and told him 
what the trouble wuz. But this has me bested. 
It’s helping her would be me self it— 

Ethel —The critics who have seen it have made 
very flattering reports. 

Mrs. McCormack —That woman she has painted 
does look queer in the face, but that ain’t more than 
lots of people do. If she would— 

(Mrs. McCormack extends her arm and is in the 
act of touching the painting when Gertrude in¬ 
terrupts) . 

Gertrude —Stop! Don’t touch that. 

(Ethel and Mrs. McCormack turn in amazement). 


36 


Inspiration 


Mrs. McCormack —Faith, and it was only her eyes 
I wuz going to touch. They look like burnt coals 
that had lost their fire. 

Gertrude (Turning on her in fury)—^Who are 
you that you should criticise? What do you know? 

Mrs. McCormack —It’s truth ye tell. I was jist 
saying to Miss Ethel, that I wasn’t meant to be of 
much importance. It’s all too high up fer me. Me 
head ain’t of use for anything ither than washin’, 
ironin’ and sich loike. 

Ethel (Turns to Mrs. McCormack)—You have 
helped me a lot, Mrs. McCormack. I had to tell 
someone. 

Mrs. McCormack —There, there, I know. Faith 
I must be seeing about me lad. (Exits). 

Gertrude (Advancing)—^Why do we always have 
to be harrassed by such as she? It is impossible for 
people who live on such a low plane to understand 
that they should keep within their own sphere and 
not try to mix with those living in the idealistic 
world. Flow I have fought living in these cheap 
quarters because of just such as she. 

Ethel —She stopped in for just a few minutes. 

Gertrude —I suppose she inquired into all of our 
affairs. 

Ethel —No, she didn’t. 

Gertrude —She probably wanted to know just 
how much longer we were going to remain here— 


Inspiration 


37 


whether we had paid our rent and whether we got 
that cretonne at sixty-nine cents a yard at the sale. 

Ethel (Taking Gertrude’s hat)—Gertrude, I think 
you do Mrs. McCormack an injustice. She has an 
inquiring mind but she is friendly. 

Gertrude —I have nothing in common with peo¬ 
ple like that. I don’t want them around me. They 
bore me—they irritate me. (Throwing her gloves 
down). 

Ethel —A cup of tea will make you feel refreshed. 
(Goes about preparing tea. A short silence here.) 

Gertrude —I have just returned from the studio. 

Ethel (Eagerly)—Any favorable news? 

Gertrude —None, Ethel, it seems we have fought 
a losing fight. 

Ethel —Oh, Gertrude! 

Gertrude —Mr. Blake said that every one admired 
the painting. That the subject I had given it— 
"Childhood” made it interesting to most people. He 
didn’t encourage me much, though. He said it was 
mighty hard for an unknown artist to make a sale. 

Ethel —Is there nothing we can do? 

Gertrude, —I have held on hoping to win the Na¬ 
tional Prize with this other painting on which I 
am working, but things do not look very hopeful 
now. I seem to be devoid of any inspiration what¬ 
soever. Every attempt I have made has been a 


38 


Inspiration 


complete failure. (Walks over to door and looks in 
at the painting.) No one realizes it more than L 

Ethel —But Gertrude, what is that something you 
are looking for? What you have done seems all right 
to me. 

Gertrude —If I could tell you, child, I could put 
it there. 

Ethel —Yes, I guess so. 

Gertrude (Worried)—I have walked the streets 
searching human faces that could give to me a big 
idea worthy of being transplanted to canvas. I am 
like one groping in the dark for a ray of light. Only 
a short time remains before the contest closes. (Slow¬ 
ly). I guess I shall fail. 

Ethel —I am not going to give up hope. 

Gertrude —^Ethel, you don’t understand. We 
can’t remain here any longer. Our rent is unpaid. I 
have made an effort to keep this apartment, poor as 
it is, believing that the signs of some prosperity 
would attract real prosperity. I had to leave those 
other miserable quarters. For more than a year now 
we have moved from one squalid place to another. 
Each one was haunting in its poverty. Each one 
brought back thoughts I was trying to forget. 
(Gertrude puts her hands as if trying to blot out 
a memory). 

Ethel —Don’t recall all that. Mrs. McCormack 
was just remarking how attractive we have made 
everything. 


Inspiration 


39 


Gertrude —Another theory of mine exploded. The 
time I have spent in creating this atmosphere has 
been wasted. I believed that making this place 
as attractive as possible would help us. Besides being 
livable, it would create the idea that I had known 
a little of success, (Telephone rings). 

Eahel (Answering)—Hello—^Yes. Mrs. Brown’s 
apartment. Yes, Gertrude Brown. What is the 
name? Mrs. Van Alystine. (At the name Gertrude 
sits upright.) Yes. Come right up. 

Gertrude (Excited)—^What did she want, Ethel? 

Ethel —She didn’t say. She asked if you were in; 
she said that she had some important business with 
you. 

Gertrude (Excitedly)—Mrs. Henry Bacon Van 
Alystine. (Ethel nods.) Ethel, she is the Mrs. Van 
Alystine who has that famous art collection. What 
do you suppose she wants to see me about? 

Ethel —I wonder why should she be coming here? 

Gertrude —Can it be possible that she is going to 
buy the painting? 

EtheX (Excitedly clapping her hands)—I know 
that is it. I know that is why she is coming. 

Gertrude —Get those things out of sight. (Point¬ 
ing to utensils Ethel has been using in making tea). 
After all the efforts we have spent in making this 
room presentable it would be shameful not to have 
it looking its best when our first customer arrives. 
Hurry, Ethel, hurry. 


40 


Inspiration 


Ethel —But your tea is just ready. What a pity! 

Gertrude —Throw it out the window—anything. 
We can’t let her see that we eat, sleep and live in 
this one room. 

Ethel (Overjoyed at a new idea)—Where is a 
cap? Let me be the maid. She need never know. 
She will be more impressed than ever that you are 
successful when she sees that you are able to keep 
a maid. (Takes cap and small apron from drawer). 
Then I won’t have to throw out the tea. 

Gertrude (An idea occurring to her)—Could it 
be that Mrs. Van Alystine has the wrong place? 
Did she ask if it was Mrs. Brown or Gertrude 
Brown? She could have been mistaken. 

Ethel —She said Gertrude Brown. 

Gertrude —I guess there is no mistake. I am the 
one for whom she is looking. (Eying the room with 
evident pleasure). I am glad that everything looks 
so cozy. I feel repaid for my work on this dingy 
place. (Looking at Ethel who by this time has on 
her cap and apron). 

Ethel —With a maid, too. 

(A knock on the door. There is a final hurry¬ 
ing about with Gertrude giving directions.) 

Gertrude —I will sit over here. You admit Mrs. 
Van Alystine. (Ethel opens the door. Enters Mrs. 
Van Alystine. She is handsomely dressed. Gertrude 
rises as she enters and advances to meet her.) 

Gertrude —Mrs. Van Alystine, I presume. 


Inspiration 


41 


Mrs, Van Alystine —Gertrude Brown. Is it Miss 
Brown or Mrs. Brown? 

Gertrude —Mrs. Brown if you use the prefix. I 
prefer just Gertrude Brown. Will you be seated. 

Mrs, Van Alystine —Thanks. 

Gertrude —I was just having tea served. Will 
you enjoy it with me? 

Mrs, Van Alystine —Delighted. 

Gertrude (To Ethel)—You may serve the tea. 
(Ethel shows signs of nervousness). 

Mrs, Van Alystine —You probably know, Mrs. 
Brown, that I am a great lover and admirer of art. 
(Ethel nearly upsets cup she is passing to Mrs. Van 
Alystine. Spills some tea on Mrs. Van Alystine’s 
arm). 

Gertrude —I believe you possess one of the finest 
collections in the city, do you not? 

Mrs, Van Alystine —You have heard of it? Col¬ 
lecting my art treasures has been a source of pleas¬ 
ure to me. I frequent all the studios. 

Gertrude —Yes. (Attitude that of anxiously await¬ 
ing something to happen.) 

Mrs, Van Alystine —Among the recent paintings 
I have found none that interested me more than 
"Childhood” of yours. (Ethel drops spoon, Mrs. Van 
Alystine looks at her through her lorgnette.) 

Gertrude —That pleases me. 


42 


Inspiration 


Mrs, Van Alystine —^What could have been the in¬ 
spiration for so touching a painting? 

Gertrude —Are you interested in that? 

Mrs, Yan Alystine —^You in some way had been 
very near to children. 

Gertrude (Eagerly)—^How have you guessed? 

Mrs, Van Alystine —I have found in following up 
the history of my paintings that the artists must 
first have lived—must first have known within 
their own hearts what they put on canvas. We can¬ 
not give to others what we ourselves do not know. 

Gertrude —There has been much in my Ufe to 
cause me to love and appreciate the traits of child¬ 
hood. 

Mrs, Van Alystine (Sympathetically)—^Tell me 
about it. 

Gertrude —^Perhaps the association with my sis¬ 
ter—I have had the sole care of her since my moth¬ 
er’s death. Nothing inspired the painting of **Child- 
hood” more than a scene I used to witness as I went 
about a certain quarter of the city. 

Mrs, Van Alystine —I felt there must be some 
particular experience. (Ethel exits. Mrs. Van Alys¬ 
tine’s eyes follow her until she is out of the room). 
Isn’t it pathetic the incompetent maids we have 
to endure now? 

Gertrude —Indeed it is. 

Mrs, Van Alystine —^Do you mind telling me just 


Inspiration 


43 


what your experience was? This is the part I enjoy 
in my collections—tracing if I can the motive for 
the painting. 

Gertrude —It is a pleasure to find one so inter¬ 
ested. 

Mrs. Yan Alystine —I am always interested in that 
phase. I call it my artist’s complex. 

Gertrude —My search—for it was a search—took 
me about the crowded tenement districts. There 
I looked on a picture that made my heart ache. 
Pale, undernourished children crowded together in 
the streets seeking a little sunlight, a little fresh air. 
You yourself have seen it—entire streets roped off 
by order of the Mayor to give them a place in which 
to play. As I used to pass along, I studied the ex¬ 
pression on their faces. Denied the abundance of 
air, the wealth of sunshine which is the inalienable 
right of every living creature, they must seek their 
play in a crowded, smoky street. My heart rebelled 
against it that they through no choice of their own 
must endure it. Possibly it was my own dislike for 
dark places and a craving for light, air and sun¬ 
shine that made me feel their lack of it so keenly. 

Mrs. Yan Alystine —^When I came I was not cer¬ 
tain whether you would understand— 

Gertrude (Leaning forward as if wanting to go 
on). Our interest in art should cause us to under¬ 
stand each other. 

Mrs. Yan Alystine —It pleases me to hear you say 


44 


Inspiration 


that. Having much in common we shall not be 
long in coming to an agreement. 

Gertrude (A surety of the sale showing her tone 
and answer.) No. 

Mrs. Van Alystine —I inquired at the studio as 
to who is the artist of **Childhood”. They gave me 
your name and address. It was with hesitancy that 
I came here, feeling that you might not be in a 
position to grant my request. 

Gertrude —Did you? 

Mrs. Van Alystine —We so often find our artists 
who have not arrived in some disagreeable attic. But 
the moment I entered the comfort of your sur¬ 
roundings quieted my fears. I am glad you are 
able to have comforts and a maid, Mrs. Brown. 

Gertrude —Comforts make life more bearable. 

Mrs. Van Alystine —My greatest interest—even 
greater than that of art—lies in a hospital and sum¬ 
mer camp we maintain for undernourished, sickly 
children. 

Gertrude —I did not know that you had that 
interest. 

Mr5. Van Alystine —It’s the underlying motive 
that directs my whole life. 

Gertrude —A worthy interest it is. 

Mrs. Van Alystine —You say that you recognized 
in the little drawn faces that you saw the thoughts 
that underlie the painting '"Childhood” ... I came 


Inspiration 


45 


to have my interest in the summer camps from a 
little life—an infant. 

Gertrude (Interested)—Your own? 

Mrs, Van Alystine —My own if love and thoughts 
could make her my own. But she belongs to an¬ 
other if flesh and blood made her so. 

Gertrude —Adopted ? 

Mrs, Van Alystine —She would have been, had 
she been allowed to live. I found her, a sickly 
frail infant in a summer camp . . . undernourished, 
the little body a mere shadow of what had been in¬ 
tended. My indignation was aroused when I saw 
her to think that any infant should be so neglected. 

Gertrude —The attendants neglected her? 

Mrs. Van Alystine —No, their attention was all 
that could be asked. I was indignant because they 
had not taken the child sooner. 

Gertrude —And why hadn’t they? 

Mrs, Van Alystine —Lack of funds . . . No place. 
While they waited for room to be made in the camp, 
the infant was wasting away in a squalid tenement. 

Gertrude —The mother, could she not help? 

Mrs, Van Alystine —She, how could she? She was 
too sick to raise her head. 

Gertrude —The father. Where was he? 

Mrs, Van Alystine —Killed in France. (Gertrude 
starts) before the baby ever saw the light of day. 
You know the story ... A war bride, the young 


46 


Inspiration 


husband was rushed away, the young mother strand¬ 
ed in New York without funds. 

Gertrude (Looking away from Mrs. Van Alys- 
tine)—^Did you ever see her? 

Mrs. Van Alystine —No. The child was taken from 
her by the city authorities when she was in a deli¬ 
rious state. They brought the baby to the camp 
. . . the good, pure air saved her. 

Gertrude (Eagerly)—The baby lived, you say? 

Mrs. Van Alystine —^For four months after I took 
her from the camp. I claimed her for my own. 

Gertrude —^For your own? 

Mrs. Van Alystine —Those were my intentions 
if the mother would consent. 

Gertrude —And she . . . consented? 

Mrs. Van Alystine —I never found her. It was 
some weeks before the baby was well enough for 
me to make a search. In the meantime the mother 
had been moved to a hospital, had recovered . . . 
and was gone. The camp authorities had even lost 
her name. 

Gertrude —The baby—did she miss her mother 
(eagerness is shown in Gertrude’s voice) . . .did she 
cry for her? 

Mrs. Van Alystine —^At first, yes. (Gertrude turns 
away to hide her emotion). Had she lived she 
would never have known that I was not her mother. 

Gertrude —And now—^you wanted it that way? 


Inspiration 


47 


Mrs, Yan Alystine —Yes. I was glad I never found 
the mother. Since I have never seen her she is not 
real to me. The memory I have left to me is that 
the baby was mine. 

Gertrude (Almost overcome but making a su¬ 
preme effort to control herself). What . . . 
has the real mother left to her? 

Mrs. Van Alystine —The same memory I have 
. . . that the baby was hers. 

Gertrude —^You think then that the mother, the 
real mother, I mean, should share that memory with 
another. 

Mrs. Van Alystine —Why not? We have never 
met—I hope we never shall. We can both go 
through life carrying the same sweet memory. 

Gertrude —Perhaps you are right (meditatively) 

. . . Perhaps. 

Mrs. Van Alystine —Here is a picture of the baby 
after I had her three months. You can see for 
yourself how fat and fine she was. 

Gertrude (Seizing the offered photograph)— Oh 
. . . .oh. (Gertrude gives way for a moment and 
then makes a supreme effort to control herself.) 
You must not notice me. It’s the love I feel for 
children that gets the best of me. Beautiful baby 
. . . beautiful baby. 

Mrs. Van Alystine —If you didn’t know that feel¬ 
ing you could never paint the picture you have. 
That brings me to the purpose of my visit here. 


48 


Inspiration 


You can now understand why I have become so in¬ 
terested in summer camps as health centers for 
needy children. 

Gertrude (With a supreme effort laying the pho¬ 
tograph on the table)—Yes ... I can understand. 

Mrs. Yan Alystine —We are now making a cam¬ 
paign to maintain a hospital and summer camp for 
the underprivileged children. You can appreciate 
the need of this. 

Gertrude —After what you have told me, I can. 

Mrs. Van Alystine —^We wanted your picture 
'^Childhood” to award to the division securing the 
most funds. Will you donate it? 

(Exclamation of smothered surprise and noise of 
chair upsetting in the room where Ethel had dis¬ 
appeared. Mrs. Van Alystine looks toward door). It 
is such a worthy cause and the picture so suitable. 

Gertrude —This is sudden. You must give me 
time to think. (She struggles for her composure). 

Mrs. Yan Alystine —Just take all the time you 
want. We never expect an answer immediately. 
(There is a pause during which time Mrs. Van Alys¬ 
tine examines place on her sleeve where the tea 
spilled. Mrs. McCormack can be heard in the hall, 
^'Ye kids be clearing out of here or I’ll call the 
janitor that quick.” (Telephone rings.) 

Gertrude (Answering.) Hello—The studio, you 
say—you have received an offer of a thousand 
dollars for **Childhood”—^Will I accept it? (Hesi- 


Inspiration 


49 


tates.) Please say that I have donated the picture 
to charity. 

Mrs. Yan Alystine (Rising quickly). That pleases 
me. I must hurry right out to get the announce¬ 
ment into the paper. The fact that you have re¬ 
fused a thousand dollars will make it even more 
valuable to us. (Exits hurriedly). (There is a mo¬ 
ment’s pause. Gertrude stands by the side of the 
table—picks up the photograph Mrs. Van Alystine 
left). 

Gertrude —*'We can both go through life carry¬ 
ing the same sweet memory,” she said. She wanted 
it so. She thinks she has the right ... I let her 
think it . . . and it all belongs to me. 

(She sinks into a chair beside the table and her 
head falls upon her arm. Ethel enters, walks to 
the window and parts the curtains. A stream of 
the late afternoon sunshine floods the opening. 

Ethel —Look, Gertrude, do come and look. They’re 
wrecking that old building across the street. The 
dark ugly walls are down. They have stood in the 
way of our sharing the sunlight. See, the whole 
room’s flooded. 

(Just then Mrs. McCormack is heard outside the 
door). 

Mrs. McCormack (Rushing in)—Miss Ethel, Miss 
Ethel, ’Tis that happy I am. The best of luck is 
smiling on me and little Pat. Just now Mrs. Van 
Alystine came out of your apartment. I met her 
in the hall. ’Tis a lot of interest she’s taken in me 


50 


Inspiration 


lad since the accident. Before I married me man, 
’twas in her house for ten years I served as maid— 
and happy years they were. She says ’tis a sure 
thing the summer camp will be held out in the 
mountains and that she is going to see that me little 
Pat will be one of the first to go. ’Tis that happy 
I am for ’twill be makin’ him well. (During the 
last of Mrs. McCormack’s speech Gertrude has 
raised her tear-stained face to Mrs. McCormack. 
Slowly, as if unbelievable, there is the realization 
that she has found something she has long sought. 

Gertrude —I see it! I see it! The idea I have long 
sought. You have brought it to me—^you. The 
painting shall be a sequel to **Childhood”. It shall 
be called ^Motherhood”. Success is mine. (She 
rushes to the door where the painting is.) 

Mrs. McCormack —Faith, and what is it she’s 
seen? Her mither’s ghost? 


^he ^edler 

By 

Fritz G. Lanham 

Production rights are retained by 
the author. Permission to produce 
must be obtained from him. 


<1 














THE PEDLER 


CHARACTERS 

Frederick Garland, Harold Glenn, Jake Arrabolinski, 
Ethel Lane, Jane. 


SCENE 

The scene is the drawing-room of Ethel Lane^s home. 
Its furnishings reflect taste and refinement. At 
the back is an arched entrance with appropriate 
hangings. At the right is a door, and in the fore¬ 
ground, by the wall, are an escritoire and small 
chair, A piano and seat occupy the corner of the 
room, A table and two chairs stand right cen¬ 
ter, A window at the left is attractively curtain¬ 
ed, and a small table and chair are near it, A 
sofa stands left center. 

As the curtain rises, fane, a maid, is seated at the 
table at the right reading a novel. 


(^3) 


54 


The Pedler 


Jane —**Tom and Jack had been just wonderful 
to her. {The doorbell rings off left; Jane looks 
around, then resumes her reading,) Tom had even 
saved her life, but Jack had had no chance to save 
it. But she was sure Jack loved her. Only the 
night before he had tried to tell her of his devo¬ 
tion, but was interrupted— {the doorbell rings 
again; Jane turns her head, then continues reading) 
—but was interrupted— {again the doorbell rings; 
Jane pauses) —but was interrupted by the untimely 
call of Frederick.” 

{Frederick Garland enters through the arch,) 

Frederick {with sarcasm) —Good morning Jane! 

Jane {rising) —Good morning, Mr. Garland. 
{Aside,) I am always interrupted by the untimely 
call of Frederick. 

Frederick {petulantly) —No one at home, of 
course, or you would have answered the bell. That’s 
what I surmised, so I walked in. {He comes down 
and sits on the sofa,) Where’s Miss Ethel? 

Jane —She has gone for a drive, sir. 

Frederick —Oh, for a drive! {He reflects,) I’ll 
wait for her, Jane. 

Jane {reluctantly) —Yes, sir. {She goes out at 
the door, reading,) **—but was interrupted by the 
untimely call of Frederick.” 

Frederick {looking after her) —I’m afraid I dis¬ 
turbed her. This is a pretty domestic condition— 
a maid so absorbed in a silly love affair she can’t 


The Pedler 


55 


attend to her duties. And yet, I, a lawyer, am 
estopped from criticising her, for I am so absorbed 
in this love affair with Ethel that my duty becomes 
a mere bagatelle. Ethel! Ethel! You keep me more 
uneasy than I keep my clients; and all the time my 
claim is suffering from your neglect, my clients’ 
claims are suffering from mine. (He rises and goes 
to the table at the right,) I suppose this is the way 
of the world but, until there is a choice between 
Harold and me, my affairs will be as tangled as the 
Gordian knot. But, after all, what is life without 
love—and what is love without a rival? (He sits at 
the table), 

Harold (singing off left) —"O Genevieve, sweet 
Genevieve!” 

Frederick —There’s mine; jolly, as usual. 

(Harold Glenn, still singing, enters through the 
arch,) 

Harold —**The days may come, the days may 
go—” (He sees Frederick,) Why, hello, old chap! 
When did you roll in? (Frederick rises and they 
shake hands,) Thought you were away on some legal 
expedition? Back to tear down my fences, eh? 

Frederick (resuming his seat) —^Well, not exact¬ 
ly; but I’m sure you haven’t been repairing mine 
during my absence. 

Harold —No, I suppose not. Strange how she 
keeps the two of us on the fence, isn’t it? Ethel’s a 
case. 


56 


The Pedler 


Frederick —Yes, she is a case that is keeping one 
lawyer decidedly in doubt. 

Harold {sitting on an arm of the sofa) —Oh, I 
see; you have made your appeal and are waiting for 
the final decision. I presume that is a case in which 
you represent yourself—and misrepresent me. 

Frederick —Hardly that. 

Harold —That’s right. I believe two rivals were 
never more congenial. Think of the mean things we 
could have said about each other—and haven’t. (He 
looks significantly at Frederick, who returns the 
glance and smiles; Harold rises and advances toward 
him,) But cheer up, old gloomy lover. It’s all over 
with me. A little incident occurred last night which 
puts me out of running—and it may dispose of you. 

Frederick —Indeed! 

Harold —Yes, I rather think it does dispose of 
you. (He puts his hands in his pockets.) What is 
your financial standing? 

Frederick —So it relates to money, eh? 

Harold —Yes; ridiculous, isn’t it? But, my boy, if 
you haven’t the coin, you don’t stand the ghost of a 
show to buy your happiness in this shop. The little 
lady who has set our hearts fluttering is mercenary 
through and through. She told me last night, in 
no uncertain terms, that the money value of the 
man she marries must be expressed in—well, in no 
uncertain terms. And, besides, when she regaled me 
with this hymeneal sentiment, matrimony was al- 


The Pedler 


57 


most as far from my thoughts as it was from my 
conversation. 

Frederick —She told you that? That’s strange! 
(He takes a letter from his pocket and hands one 
page to Harold.) Here; read that. 

Harold {reading) —Same thing, almost verbatim. 
When did you get this? (He returns the page to 
Frederick^ who replaces it and puts the letter in his 
pocket ). 

Frederick —You know, I have been over at Brax¬ 
ton for the last ten days on business. Before I left 
there yesterday I received this letter from Ethel in 
which, as you see, she takes pains to tell me that 
the man she marries must be wealthy and that, if 
he has wealth, he need have nothing more. So she 
has been goading you with this same unreasonable 
story? 

Harold —She certainly has; told me money could 
buy all the happiness she cares for. 

Frederick {rising) —She doesn’t believe anything 
of the sort. Something’s wrong. She wouldn’t 
marry just any man simply because he had a bank 
roll—would she? Perhaps some new fellow with a 
fortune is about to enter the field and she is adopt¬ 
ing this plan to make me jealous. 

Harold —Maybe so. 

Frederick —Ethel has never impressed me as a 
golddigger. 

Harold {sitting on an arm of the sofa) —^Well, 


58 


The Pedler 


she knows about what I make out of my civil en¬ 
gineering, and I know it’s not enough to buy all 
the happiness I care for. If she’s sincere—well, you 
can count me out in the first round. 

Frederick —But she’s not sincere; it isn’t natural. 
Why, she has money enough in her own name to 
live in luxury the rest of her life. There’s a trick 
somewhere. 

(Ethel Lane enters through the arch, carrying a 
few small bundles; attracted by the conversation, 
she stops to listen, shielded by the hangings,) 

Frederick (continuing) —Ethel is a great joker, 
you know. Now, confidentially, I have money; but 
she knows nothing of it. I kept this a secret when 
I came here from the North. I wanted to see if 
a young lawyer could fight his own way in the West 
and win on merit. I contend that the same prin¬ 
ciple applies in love affairs which applies in busi¬ 
ness affairs; so you need not mention that I am 
rich. 

Harold —Oh, don’t worry; I won’t tell her. 

Frederick (firmly) —^But, if she ever loves me, it 
will be for myself alone! (He resumes his seat ). 

Ethel (aside) —^What a bad bargain! 

Harold (applauding Frederick) —^Bravo! That line 
is from ^^The T>ukje*s Secret. You’ve been reading 
cheap literature, Frederick. (He rises, moves near¬ 
er Frederick and speaks deliberately.) But, seriously, 
we can’t afford to let Ethel catch us in a trap. If 


The Pedler 


59 


it’s a joke, suppose we meet it with a better one. I 
have an idea. 

Frederick —The first idea’s a good one; what’s 
the second? 

Harold —Now, she says positively that she will 
marry any man with money. 

Frederick —Yes. 

Harold —Well, here’s my scheme. When I was at 
college I was a member of the dramatic club and 
appeared in a number of character roles. I still 
have make-up costumes of various kinds at home. 
Suppose I go and make up as a very ordinary fel¬ 
low—say, a pedler? 

Ethel {aside )—The plot thickens. 

Frederick —Go on. 

Harold —Then in half an hour I’ll come here in 
mv disguise and in some way gain admission to 
this room. While I am selling—or trying to sell— 
my goods to Ethel, you come in, lawyer that you 
are, ascertain my name—I’ll assume one for the oc¬ 
casion—tell me I am the very man you’ve been 
looking for, and that a large estate has been left 
me by some rich relation in the old country. 

Frederick —Fine! 

Harold —But on condition, mind you, that I get 
married at once. 

Frederick —I see. 

Harold —Here I’ll be, apparently rich as Croesus 


60 


The Pedler 


and ugly as sin, and Fll propose to Ethel on the 
spot. 

Ethel {aside) —And I have been trying for 
months to make him propose! 

Harold —This will put her sentiment to the test, 
you see. If she refuses to marry me—which of 
course, she will—Til remove the disguise and the 
two of us can give her the laugh. 

Erederick {rising) —That is a clever scheme. I 
stand a chance to lose by it, because she may call 
our hands and marry you, but I’ll risk it. 

{Ethel goes out through the arch.) 

Harold {shaking Fredericks hand) —Good; iFs 
a bargain. Remember, then, we’ll meet here in 
half an hour. 

{The two start to leave, Erederick crossing back 
of Harold as they move toward the arch, placing 
Erederick left and Harold right, but they are in¬ 
terrupted by the entrance of Ethel; she pretends 
to be ]ust returning.) 

Ethel {holding the bundles in her left arm and 
coming down.) Good morning, boys! Glad to have 
you back with us, Frederick. {She shakes hands 
with Erederick.) Hello, Harold. I hope I haven’t 
kept you waiting long. {She moves back of the table 
at the right, removes her hat and places it, with 
the bundles, on the table.) Won’t you be seated? 

Erederick —Why, Ethel, its— 

Ethel —Oh, come, come; no excuses. {Harold sits 


The Pedler 


61 


uneasily at the table, taking the chair at the right, 
and Frederick goes to the sofa,) Isn’t it a glorious 
morning? I’ve been for a drive and, incidentally, 
did a little shopping; but now (she takes the chair 
at the left of the table,) I have nothing to do for 
an hour or so and we can have a nice, long chat. 
(She looks at one, then at the other, then straight 
ahead; Harold and Frederick exchange ominous 
glances,) 

Harold (rising) —Ethel, I’d like to talk, you know 
—really—but—why— (he looks at his watch) — 
you see, I have a very important engagement in 
just a few minutes—ah—haven’t I Frederick? 

Frederick (rising) —Yes, yes, so he has. We’ve 
been waiting for you some time, Ethel, and— 

Fthel —Oh, sit down. Let the engagement go. This 
is the first time in weeks we’ve had an opportunity 
to gossip. 

Harold —That’s so; but business is business, you 
know. 

Ethel (rising) —^Yes, I suppose it is. I can’t com¬ 
plain if vou really must go —but be sure to come 
back. (She resumes seat), 

Harold (going toward the arch) —Oh, I’ll come 
back all right. (He waves his handkerchief at Fred- 
erick who returns the wave as Harold leaves), 

Frederick —I must confess I can’t see any special 
reason for him to come back. He is a poor man 
and, if you mean what you wrote in this letter to 


62 


The Pedler 


me, his chance of marrying you is quite as un¬ 
favorable as mine. 

Ethel —Oh, marriage, Frederick! That’s out of 
the question. Let’s not speak of it. When I marry, 
I must marry a fortune; that’s all there is to it. 

Frederick —So you think you would be willing 
to marry any man with a fortune? 

Ethel —Certainly; any man. 

Frederick —Then fellows whose faces are their 
fortunes have little credit with you? 

Ethel —None at all. The commercial world must 
trust my husband’s money, not his face. 

Frederick —I believe I look at it the same way. 

Ethel —Now, that’s sensible. You wouldn’t want 
to marry a girl, even were she desperately in love 
with you, just to make her miserable in poverty? 
You wouldn’t want to make one mistrust you? 

Frederick —I have been trying to make one Miss 
trust me. 

Ethel —Indeed! 

Frederick —You know I have. And it’s the fu¬ 
tility of my endeavor to create such a trust which 
has induced me to believe that you—in fact, all 
girls—should marry for money. 

Ethel —Sensible fellow! 

Frederick —Ethel, I have always been a good friend 
of yours—haven’t I? 


The Pedler 


63 


Ethel (rising and going over behind Frederick) — 
Why of course, you have. 

Frederick —^Well, I’m going to prove my sincerity. 
I believe I have a chance to do you a little friendly 
turn for which you will thank me. 

Ethel —And what is this little friendly turn? 

Frederick —It’s rather peculiar, but I think I am 
on the track of a man who will meet exactly your 
matrimonial requirements. My work has been a little 
out of my line of late; I’ve been a detective. 

Ethel —A detective! How interesting! 

Frederick —Yes, it is interesting. A few days ago 
I received a letter from a very distinguished for¬ 
eigner soliciting my services in an attempt to locate 
the heir to an enormous estate. It seems that several 
years ago he came to America because of some mis¬ 
understanding with his people. Since his arrival 
here, he has made his living at odd jobs, doing 
whatever his hands have found to do. He is thought 
to be at present in this part of the country. 

Ethel —That sounds promising. Let me help you 
find him. I have always hoped to marry some great 
foreigner. 

Frederick —But you must remember, Ethel, that 
he is little more now than a mere tramp. 

Ethel (moving toward the center) —Oh, that 
lends an air of romance. And then, he has a for¬ 
tune awaiting him; Think of it! 

Frederick (rising) —Yes, I am thinking of it. 


64 


The Pedler 


too. (He goes to the arch.) I am going to work 
and give you an opportunity to think of it. And, 
as you think, you might also be on the lookout for 
this roving nabob. (He goes out). 

Ethel (standing by the arch, speaking to Fred¬ 
erick as he leaves) —^Yes, Frederick; I shall. (She 
returns to the table.) So they have compared notes 
and have discovered that I have been planning a 
joke on them; and, in return, they have planned 
one on me. Isn’t that jolly? I believe their joke is 
a better one than mine. I’ll just help them out with 
it. Harold coming disguised as a pedler! And he’s 
going to propose! Oh, the dear fellow! I hope he 
doesn’t forget that part of it. Let me see! He hopes 
in some way to gain admission to this room. Well, 
I’ll see that he has no difficulty in that. (She presses 
a bell at the table.) Oh, if he doesn’t propose! (Jane 
enters at the door). 

Jane —^Did you ring. Miss? 

Ethel —^Yes, Jane, (Jane advances to center.) I am 
expecting a pedler to come to the house this morn¬ 
ing. When he arrives show him into this room. 

Jane —^Yes, Miss. 

Ethel (gathering her bundles and hat.) And make 
him as comfortable as possible. 

Jane —^Yes, Miss. 

Ethel —^This is a little secret of mine, Jane. I 
am preparing to give a friend a genuine surprise. 
(She goes out at the door). 


The Pedler 


6S 


Jane {netting the furniture in order )—That’s 
just like Miss Ethel! she’s always playing a prank on 
somebody. I’ll keep handy this time and see the 
fun myself. {The door bell rings.) Maybe, that’s the 
pedler now. (She goes to the window and peeps out.) 
Yes, he looks like one. (The bell rings again.) Oh, 
I’m coming! (She goes through the arch, answers 
the bell and re-enters.) Just walk right in here, sir. 
(Jake Arrabolinski enters slowly through the arch, 
a small pack on his back; mystified by his reception, 
he halts and stares blankly ahead.) 

Jane (aside )—I have seen that man somewhere 
before. (To Jake.) Have a chair, sir. (Jake looks at 
her, then at the chair.) Be seated a moment while 
I call Miss Ethel. (Jake looks at Jane, points to him¬ 
self and then to the sofa, as if asking if he must be 
seated; Jane nods assent; Jake sits very cautiously 
on the upholstered sofa, then shakes his head du¬ 
biously.) Where have I seen him before? (Jane goes 
out the door slowly, gazing intently at Jake; when 
she is gone, Jake peers about uneasily, rises, walks 
toward the arch and reaches it ]ust as Ethel enters 
right). 

Ethel —Good morning! (Jake stops abruptly; 
aside.) Harold is about to back out of it. He al¬ 
ways did lack nerve. (To Jake.) Good morning! 
(Jake nods.) Do you wish to see me? 

Jake (timidly )—No. (Ethel starts toward him.) 
Hm-m—yas! (A smile replaces gradually his ex¬ 
pression of fear). 


66 


The Pedler 


Ethel —Then be seated, won’t you? 

Jake —Me seet down? 

Ethel —Yes, be seated. 

Jake —You don’t know I’m a pedler. 

Ethel —Oh, yes, I know you’re a pedler. 

Jake —You know eet? 

Ethel —Why, of course, I know it. 

Jake {shaking his head) —^Day don* dreat pedlers 
dees way udder places. 

Ethel —^Perhaps not; but you are among friends 
now. {Jake regards her with perplexity,) I mean 
you are with people who sympathize with you. {She 
sits at the table at the right,) What are you peddling? 

Jake {coming nearer and taking a small box from 
his pack) —Dees. {He hands the box to Ethel), 

Ethel —And what is it for? 

Jake —Cleanz Panz. 

Ethel {returning the box to Jake) —Cleans pants? 
Is that so? {She presses the bell before her,) I’ll see 
if it does. {Jane enters,) Jane, father has an old 
pair of trousers in the back hall closet; bring them 
here. 

Jane {her eyes fixed on Jake) —Yes, Miss. {She 
goes out at the door), 

Jake —Make ’em schleek an’ shiny. 

Ethel —Father has worn these so long I suspect 
they are slick and shiny already. {Jane enters with 


The Pedler 


67 


a pair of trousers and hands them to Ethel, who 
offers them to Jake,) There your are. {He does 
not take them), 

Jake (explaining) —No, no, not panz; panz! Cook 
een de panz! 

Ethel —Oh, I see; pans that you cook in? 

Jake ( nodding ) —Yas! 

Ethel (handing the trousers to Jane) —^Here, Jane, 
take these back and bring me a pan from the kitchen. 
(Jane takes the trousers and goes out gazing at 
Jake, who notes her gaze), 

Jake (aside) —Dat girl like me. 

Ethel —Don’t you sometimes get tired of being 
a pedler and wish you were something else—say, 
a civil engineer? (She looks searchingly at Jake), 

Jake —Oh, Engeneer! Ride on de drain! Yas. I 
walk now. 

Ethel (aside) —Harold is playing the part beau¬ 
tifully. (Jane enters with a pan; she gives it to Ethel, 
whc hands it to Jake and he begins to clean it; as 
Jane goes out, Ethel talks with him as he works,) 
You haven’t been a pedler always, have you? 

Jake —No; once I was a baby. 

Ethel —But you have been peddling since you were 
grown? 

Jake —No lady. (He stops work on the pan,) 
Seence I lost me leetle seester. 


68 


The Pedler 


Ethel {with mock sympathy) —Oh; Then you’ve 
lost a little sister? 

]ake —Yas, lady; de sweetes’ leetle girl ever was. 
Eet was long time ago. Me mudder was poor, an’ 
me leetle seester leeved away een annudder town 
wid me fadder’s seester. Fadder was dead. One 
day me mudder got seek—awful seek—an’ we got 
on de drain to go see her ’fore she died. We came 
to a seety, an’ een de seety de drain go een beeg tun¬ 
nel. An’ den—we run ’gainst anudder drain. An 
den^—ah, I don’ know. Ebryt’ing was black. W’en 
I woke up ag’in I was een de horspeetal; an’ me 
leetle seester—I ain’t nebber seen her no mo’. (He 
puts his bandana to his eyes and sobs), 

Ethel (aside) —Harold ought to go on the stage. 

Jake (conquering his emotion and flourishing the 
pan,) See de pan, lady; bright! 

Ethel (taking the pan, looking at it and putting 
it on the table) — Yes, that does very well. (Aside, 
as Jake dries his eyes,) If Frederick plays his part 
this well, they may have me believing them yet. I 
wonder why he doesn’t come? 

Jake —An’ deeshes; eet cleanz old deeshes, too. 

Ethel (pressing bell) —Oh, does it? (Jane enters,) 
Jane, an old dish. (Jane goes for the dish,) This 
seems to be a very wonderful preparation. Do you 
like to clean dishes? 

Jake —Yes, lady. 

Ethel (aside) —What a fine husband Harold will 


The Pedler 


69 


make. (Jane enters with a dish, which she hands to 
Ethel, who gives it to Jake.) Here is a nice large one 
for you. 

Jake (setting to work on the dish) —Oh, beeg one! 
Dees will make eet w’ite an’ purty. (Jane goes out, 
her eyes riveted on Jake; Frederick enters through 
the arch). 

Ethel (aside) —The other joker at last! 

Frederick—Hello, Ethel. I beg your pardon for 
coming in unannounced, but Fm in a hurry. (Fie 
goes near her and speaks to her softly.) You remem¬ 
ber the heir to the fortune? 

Ethel —Yes. 

Frederick —^Well, I have been following this fel¬ 
low about (he indicates Jake) and I believe he is 
the very man Fm after. 

Ethel —Good! Isn’t that lucky? I congratulate 
you on finding him so soon. 

Frederick —Yes, it is lucky. And now, Ethel, if 
you will be good enough to get me a note book and 
pencil, we’ll see what we can learn from him. 

Ethel —Certainly; just a minute. (She goes to 
the escritoire and finds a note book and pencil, she 
reflects, puts them back and soliloquizes as Fred¬ 
erick walks over to Jake.) They want a chance to 
confer. (She goes out at the door). 

Frederick (slapping Jake heartily on the shoul¬ 
der) —Say, old man, your make-up’s great! And 
these! (lie points to Jake^s whiskers.) They’re just 


70 


The Pedler 


as good as if they were real! (He pulls a hair from 
Jake*s beard; Jake blurts out a protesting and 

is in the act of striking Frederick as Ethel re-enters ). 

Ethel —Gentlemen!! 

Jahe (apologetically) —Excuse, please. 

Frederick (advancing and meeting Ethel by the 
table) —Yes, you see, Ethel, he doesn’t understand 
me! (He takes the note book and pencil which Ethel 
proffers ). 

Jake —No; I don’ understand heem. (Ethel laughs 
and sits at the table; Jake comes nearer Ethel, and 
Frederick crosses left). 

Frederick (flourishing the note book and pencil) — 
Now, sir, may I ask your name? 

Jake (addressing Ethel) —Tell heem? 

Ethel —Oh, yes, tell him. 

Jake —Jake. 

Frederick (writing) —I see—Jake. What is your 
last name? 

Jake —Arrabolinski. 

Frederick —^What!!! 

Jake —Arrabolinski. 

Frederick (addressing Jake) —Say, for heaven’s 
sake, how did you ever come to select such a name 
as that? You’ll ruin this whole thing yet. (He repeats 
his inquiry.) Once more, please; what is your sur¬ 
name? 


The Pedler 


71 


Jake —Arrabolinski. 

Frederick {nonplussed; tapping the pencil against 
the note book) —That’s a funny name. 

Jake —^Dat was me fadder’s name. 

Ethel —Yes; that was your father’s name, wasn’t 
it, Jake? 

Jake —Yas. 

Frederick —It’s a peculiar name, you know. I just 
wanted to be sure. That’s the name all right. (He 
writes in note book) Mr. Rarablinski, you are the 
very man I have been looking for. I have quite a 
surprise for you. You have fallen heir to a large 
fortune. 

Jake {in great surprise)^Moneyll {He drops the 
dishy which breaks; he is bewildered for a momenta 
and then his face brightens,) Oh I can pay for dat 
wid some ob de money! 

Frederick —Yes, Mr. Garaswinski, a rich uncle 
of yours has just died in the old country and he has 
left you more money than you can possibly use. I 
have been authorized to deliver it. 

Jake {eagerly) —Den geeve eet to me. I need eet. 

Frederick —To be sure; but not so fast. {He 
detains Jake with a gesture.) It v/as left upon one 
condition. 

Jake {perplexed ) —Con—condition ? 

Frederick —Yes; that is, there is one thing you 
must do before you get it. 


72 


The Pedler 


Jake —W’at mus’ I do? 

Frederick —You must marry. 

Jake (greatly astonished) —Marry ? 

Frederick —Yes, sir; it is expressly stipulated that 
you must marry. 

Jake {shaking his head sorrowfully) —I can’ do 
eet. 

Frederick —Can’t do it!!! 

Jake —I’m married already; day’ll put me een 
preeson. 

Ethel {aside) —Harold is inserting a few novel 
features. 

Frederick {speaking earnestly to Jake) —Oh, look 
here! This is enough of this foolishness. You know 
you’re not married. Do you want to spoil this whole 
business and make me out a fool? 

Jake —Got a wife an’ two leetle boys in San 
Francis. 

Frederick {upbraiding Jake) —Say, you are about 
to play this joke on me instead of Ethel. {He so¬ 
liloquizes,) I must correct this some way. He’ll make 
a botch of it. {He speaks out boldly,) But I can 
prove you are not married. 

Ethel {addressing Jake) —^Why, I know that you 
are not married. 

Jake —Eh? 

Frederick —Yes, she knows that. 


The Pedler 


73 


Jake {to Ethel) —You know eet? 

Ethel —Certainly, I do. 

Jake {going to the table at the left and sitting de¬ 
jectedly) —Maybe so. I guess I don’ know somet’ing 
at all. 

Frederick —You don’t if you think you’re mar¬ 
ried. But I can tell you one thing; it won’t be any 
trouble for you to get married. This young lady 
here will jump at the chance. 

Ethel {aside) —That’s so; I’d marry Harold any 
day. 

Jake {incredulously) —^Dees lady marry me? 

Ethel {rushing to his side and kneeling) —^Yes, 
dear, and rejoice to have such a prince for a hus¬ 
band. 

Jake —I deedn’ know I was so fine. 

Frederick {aside) —Heaven protect me! Ethel was 
in earnest; She is in love with money! I musn’t lose 
her this way. {Fie argues with Ethel) Yes, Ethel, 
but you just heard him say he’s married. You can’t 
marry him; he’d be a bigamist. 

Ethel —But you just said you could prove that he 
is not married. 

Frederick {in despair) —Oh, worse and worse! 

Ethel {beseechingly to Jake) —And, dear, if you 
are still single, you will marry me, won’t you? 

Jake —I guess so. Ask heem {he indicates Freder¬ 
ick) ; he knows. 


74 


The Pedler 


Ethel—He shall not stand between us. No one can 
ever take you from me. I love you with all my heart, 
and I have loved you from the moment I first saw 
you. (She throws her arms around his neck and kisses 
knm). 

Frederick (aside) —She kissed him!!! 

Ethel (rising, much puzzled, and looking straight 
ahead) —He’s been eating garlic!! 

Harold (shouting off left) —Knives to grind! 
Knives to grind! 

Frederick (aside) —There’s something wrong! 

Ethel (aside) —^Why, that’s Harold! I’ve made a 
mistake! (Ethel goes hurriedly to the table at the 
right; Harold enters through the arch, clumsily 
disguised as a pedler; he comes between Frederick 
and Jake and looks from one to the other, unable 
to understand the situation), 

Harold (aside) —It looks queer, but I suppose it’s 
all right. 

Ethel (speaking sharply to Harold) —^Well!! 

Harold —Fairly well, thank you. Have you any 
knives to grind? 

Ethel —^No, sir! Have you any axe to grind? 

Harold —Certainly not. 

Ethel —Then why on earth are you making a 
fool of yourself, Harold? 

Harold —Harold ? 

Ethel —Yes, Harold! You surely don’t think any 


The Pedler 


75 


one would have the slightest difficulty recognizing 
you in that clumsy make-up? 

Harold {aside) —And I thought I was clever. 

Ethel —You must be losing your mind. {She 
rings the bell,) Sit down and keep cool a minute. 
Try not to get violent. I’ll send for something to 
relieve you. {Jane enters,) Jane, bring Mr. Glenn 
something to revive him. He’s a trifle ill today. 

Harold —No, no, Jane; never mind. I’m all right. 
Ethel, I can explain it— {Frederick puts a finger to 
his lips, warningly) —some other time. Just let 
me sit here. I’ll be better directly. {He sits on the 
sofa), 

Ethel —Oh, I’m not worrying so much about you, 
Harold, but you have interrupted a very important 
business engagement between Frederick and Mr. 
Arrabolinski. 

Jane —Arrabolinski? Is that your name, sir? 

Jake —Dat was eet w’en I come een. 

Jane —^Jake Arrabolinski? 

Jake {rising) —^Yas, dat’s eet. 

Jane —Jake, have you forgotten me? I am Teeny! 
{She rushes into Jake^s arms), 

Jake {embracing Jane fondly) —Teeny! Me leetle 
seester! Me leetle seester! 

Ethel {aside) —Now I begin to understand it all. 
{She speaks to Jane,) Yes, Jane; you remember I 


76 


The Pedler 


told you I was expecting a pedler and that I was 
preparing a surprise for a friend of mine? 

Jane —Why, of course, I remember! 

Ethel —Well, you are the friend, Jane, and this 
{she indicates Jake) is the surprise. {Aside,) I am 
getting out of this muddle nicely. {Jake and Jane 
go to the piano-seat and sit and converse earnestly ). 

Frederick —^Ethel, I don’t want to intrude in a 
private family reunion, so, if you will excuse me— 

Ethel —One moment, Frederick. You have not 
yet paid Mr. Arrabolinski the money his uncle left 
him. 

Frederick {nervously) —The money? Oh yes, the 
money. 

Jake —Nebber mind; I got me lee tie sees ter now. 

Ethel —But you shall have the money, too. It 
belongs to you; and Mr. Garland wouldn’t withhold 
it for the world—would you, Mr. Garland? 

Frederick —Oh, no, no; certainly not. 

Harold {addressing Frederick) —I believe she has 
you cornered. 

Ethel —Come, Frederick! The money! 

Frederick —Why—ah—why, I haven’t the money 
with me. 

Ethel {taking a check book from the escritoire) — 
That doesn’t matter. Give a check on your bank; 
that will do. 


The Pedler 


77 


Frederick (accepting the check-book reluctantly) 
—Oh, yes—yes—a check. Well, you see Ethel, it 
wasn’t very much money that was left him. 

Ethel —You said it was a large fortune. 

Frederick —Yes, so I did. I meant it would seem 
like a large fortune to him. It was just a thousand 
dollars. 

Ethel —That’s small, its true, but it will help Jane 
and her brother for a while. Just give me a check 
for the thousand. (Frederick stares ahead,) Freder¬ 
ick! The check for the thousand. 

Frederick —Yes, yes; of course. (He sits at the 
table left and speaks complainingly to Harold as he 
writes the check.) Here’s where I pay a thousand 
dollars for that clever idea of yours. 

Harold —I believe that’s a little more than it was 
worth. 

Frederick (gruffly, as he rises and gives the check 
to Ethel.) There you are! 

Ethel —Thank you. But perhaps you do not de¬ 
serve my thanks. I dare say you are making a snug 
little fee for this. 

Frederick (aside) —Oh, think of it! (He starts to 
go). 

Ethel (detaining him) —One thing more, Fred¬ 
erick; don’t forget me when you find a man with 
money. 

Frederick (standing by the arch) —I hope when I 


78 


The Pedler 


do find a man with money, he’ll know better how 
to use it. {He goes out). 

Ethel (looking at Harold, who sits defected, and 
then at Jane and Jake chatting merrily) —O, Jane; 
take your brother out and show him the flowers. 
Father needs a gardener, you know. 

Jane —^Yes, Miss Ethel. 

Ethel —And, maybe—^sometime—Jake could bring 
his family. We’ll discuss that—and the check— 
when you come back. 

Jane —^You’re very kind. Miss Ethel. (She goes 
toward the arch ). 

Jake (following Jane) —Oh, thank you, lady. (He 
leaves with Jane). 

Ethel —And now, as for you, Harold, I can’t see 
any justification for your conduct at all. 

Harold (rising and approaching Ethel) — But, 
Ethel, I can explain it. Really, I can. 

Ethel —No; I don’t care to hear your explanation. 
Promise me you will never try to explain it. 

Harold —And if I do promise, will you give me 
your promise, Ethel? 

Ethel (with mock bewilderment) —My promise! 

Harold —You know what promise I mean. (He 
takes her hands ). 

Ethel —O, Harold! This is so sudden! (They 
embrace ). 


By 

James H. Newett 

Price for Production, $7.50. 

Permission must be obtained from 
the publishers, Southwest Press. 



(79) 







ELIMINATION 

(A Comedy in One Act) 


(The action of this play takes place in the one- 
room shack of Lige Williams, a negro tenant cot¬ 
ton farmer by occupation and a preacher by 
avocation.) Lige^s cotton patch is located in East 
Texas, in Henderson County. In addition to Lige 
the persons of the play are Elvira, a young negro 
woman about twenty years, Lige^s daughter, for 
whose affection Simon and Moses are rivals. Simon 
is the bully of the community, a heavy set, large 
boned and muscled negro. Moses is his opposite, 
both in stature and intellect. Fanny is Lige^s wife 
and Elvira^s mother. She is spare of build, but not 
of discourse. 

As the curtain rises, showing the interior of the 
shack, Elvira is disclosed standing beside a small 
wood-burning stove that is used for heating and 
cooking purposes. She is singing '*De ol’ Ark am 
a-movin’ ”, when she is interrupted by a light and 
cautious knocking on the door, which is open. She 
stops her singing long enough to cry out, **Come in.” 


(81) 


82 


Timination 


Moses (Peeking in at the door timorously)—is 
yuh all ’lone? 

Elvira —Yas honey, Tse ’lone. 

Moses —Is yuh ’spectin’ anybody? 

Elvira —^No, I ain’t ’spectin’ nobody ’cept you. 
What yuh so scairt fo’? 

Moses —It am dat big nigger agin’. 

Elvira —Yuh means dat no ’count Simon? 

Moses —Uh huh. 

Elvira —How come yo’se ’fraid o’ him Moses? 

Moses —How come? Sugar yuh dosen’t mean to 
tell me dat yuh is dat ig’nant? 

Elvira —Nigger, be careful. I doesn’t like dem 
dar sen’ments. 

Moses —I doesn’t aim to talk to yuh dat a-way 
honey, but I’se dat scairt. 

Elvira —Don’ yuh talk to me like dat no mo’. 

Moses —But honey, I’se so ’fraid o’ dat dar Simon. 

Elvira —I doesn’t guess dat yuh got much to be 
scairt over. He ain’t goin’ to kill yuh, I reckon. 

Moses —Dat’s jes’ it honey. 

Elvira —I doesn’t apprehend yo’ meanin’. 

Moses —Mind what I tells yuh. Dat dar nigger 
ain’t gwine to git glad ’til I’se dead ’n he kills me. 


’Limination 


83 


Elvira (with interest)—What is yuh aimin’ to 
say, Moses? 

Moses —Yuh see it am like dis. Dis evenin’ bein’ 
Sat’day everybody was in town, ’n when I gits dar, 
why Jeff, das de boy which works on Mr. Wiggins 
patch down de road a piece, he say to me, ” Simon 
am lookin’ fo’ you, better watch out”. 

Elvira —^Well I declare it wan’t fo’ no good. 

Moses —’N den I sees Joe, Judge Hatch’s boy, what 
says to me, **Mose’ yuh ain’t seen Simon, has yuh?” 
’N when I shakes my head he jes’ sniggers ’n walks 
off. 

Elvira —Dat low down nigger. He ain’t got de 
sense he’s bo’n ’thout. 

Moses —^He ain’t got no sense, but he sho’ has got 
got a pow’ful stout fist. 

Elvira —Ain’t hit de truf. 

Moses —’N he done tol’ dat der yaller boy Jake, 
yo’ cousin, dat him ’n Jake ud soon be kin, soon’s 
he got me out o’ de way. 

Elvira —^Well I likes dat, ’thout even axin’ me ’bout 
it. 

Moses —He done tol’ yuh ’pappy dat if he ever 
cotch dat little white-livered nigger, meanin’ me, 
dat he was fixin’ to break his bones, ’n use dem to 
pick his teef wif. 

£li;ira —He sho’ am a bad man, dat Simon am. 

Moses —Yuh doesn’t love him does yuh, honey? 


84 


’Limination 


Elvira —I likes strong ’n brave ones, sugar. 

Moses —Doesn’t yuh love, me Elvira? 

Elvira —Sho’ I love yuh, but— 

Moses —Ain’t yuh goin’ to marry me? 

Elvira —Yes I is, ef Simon don* bust yo* head fo’ 
ever I gits a chance to marry yuh. 

Moses —Ef he bust my head den yuh marries him, 
honey? 

Elvira —I ain’t sayin’ as how I’se gwine to marry 
nobody. I doesn’t say I marries him, ’n I doesn’t 
say I doesn’t. 

Moses —Oh! honey. 

Elvira —^Widows am better ’n bein’ wives, any 
how. 

Moses —Ef yuh was his widow dat ud be de truf. 

Elvira —Hush yo’ mouf, foolishness. I ain’t his 
wife yet. 

Moses —’N yuh ain’t mine yit. 

Elvira —Faint heart ain’t won no fair lady yit, 
das what de Bible says. 

Moses —How come I ain’t got no strong heart? It 
am beatin’ fo’ you mos’ o’ de’ time, jes’ like a mock¬ 
in’ bird a singin’ to de moon. 

Elvira —Who says anything ’bout yo’ heart, but 
yuh got to use yo’ head to git dat bad man. Don’ 
need yo’ heart. Mose’ I is su’prised at you. 


’Limination 


85 


Moses —Das right honey. Don’ I know it? But 
listen heah. 

Elvira —I’se listenin’. Disgorge you’se’f 

Moses —We got to ’liminate him. 

Elvira —Mus’ what? 

Moses —’Liminate—’liminate— 

Elvira —I doesn’t git yo’ meanin’. 

Moses —^Well, it am jes’ like dis. When comes 
somebody in yo’ way why yuh ’liminates him. 

Elvira —’Xactly. Wif a gun o’ some sich way? 

Moses —No honey, not dat a way. When yuh ’lim¬ 
inates yuh does like white folks does. Ain’t no 
fo’ce no how. He jes’ uses his legs ’n goes away 
f’um heah. ! 

Elvira —I sees. De country gits too hot fo’ him. 
I thinks yuh git better’n better, Mose’. How does 
we do dis heah ’liminatin’? 

Moses —Gi’ me time, chile, gi’ me time. I’se jes’ 
beginnin’ to figure it out. 

Elvira —Better do it fast. Yuh ain’t got much time 
a-fore they returns f’um town. 

Moses —Honey, why fo’ does yuh talk like dat? 
It makes me shiver all over to heah it. 

Elvira —^Well you is fixin’ to git a lot colder dis 
yere winter when dem no’thers comes a blowin 
across yo’ grave. 


86 


’Limination 


Moses —Elvira, don’ talk that way all o’ de time, 
jes’ when I’se fixin’ to do a little ’liminatin’. 

Elvira (Turning her attention to the stove)—I 
done clean fo’got dat possum ’count o’ listenin’ to 
yo’ high talk ’bout ’liminatin*. 

Moses —Honey, I’se sorry. 

Elvira —You is sorry lookin’. 

Moses —Ef dat nigger ud only stay out o’ it. 

Elvira —Heah yuh is, Moses. Eat dis yere piece o’ 
possum ’n dis yere co’n bread ’n git yo’ spirits back 
in yo’ stomach ey yuh can’t git dem in yo’ heart. 

Moses —Thank yuh, Elvira. Yuh so’ does make a 
pow’ful good wife. Ef yuh ain’t de cookin’est gal I 
know. 

Elvira —I makes a good wife, ef it don’t come dat 
Simon don’ git me fust. 

Moses —Sugar, don’ (He stops terrified as he 
hears the sound of voices and wagon wheels in the 
yard.) Oh, Lawdy, who am dat? 

Elvira (Going to the door)—It am mammy ’n 
pappy ’n— 

Moses —Yas, Elvira. Who am wif dem? 

Elvira —Praise de Lawd! 

Aloses (pleading)—^Who am dar, honey? 

Elvira (To those outside)—^Hi, mammy. Hi dar, 
pappy. Hi, Simon. 


’Limination 


87 


Moses —Lawdy, Lawdy, Fse scairt Fse gwine to 
die soon. 

Elvira —Hush up yo’ cryin’ fo’ de Lawd. 

Moses —Lawdy, Lawdy. 

Elvira —^Hush up I says. Yuh sho’ly am fixin’ to 
die ef Simon heah yuh. 

Moses —^Lawd ha* mercy on me *n fo*give my sins. 

Elvira —Heah you Mose, shut up yo’ mouf, or 
Simon’ll be doin some ’liminatin* ’round ’bout heah 
right smart, and it ain’t nobody else but you, he 
’liminates. De lawd he’ps dem what he’ps desse’fs. 

Moses —Yas, honey, I knows, but what is I gwine 
to do? Mus’ I try ’n git out O’ yere? 

Elvira (As the voices come nearer)—So Simon 
kin make barbecue out o’ yuh. Listen heah. 

Moses (Meekly)—^Yas’m. 

Elvira (Indicating an old enameled iron bed) — 
Git yo’se’f un’er dat dar bed, ’n I pulls down de 
covers so dey can’t see yuh at all. 

Moses (with alacrity)—Yo sho’ is smart Elvira. 

Elvira —^Mus’ be dat one o’ us am smart, ’n it ain’t 
you. 

Moses —I does what you say do. (He slips under 
the bed, while Elvira arranges the cover, so as to 
conceal him. She walks back to the stove and re¬ 
sumes her singing. As she hears footsteps she stops 
her song). 


88 


Timination 


Elvira —Heah they come. 

Moses (From under the bed)—Who? 

Elvira —Hush yo’ mouf (To Simon as he enters). 
Evenin’ Simon. 

Simon —Howdy, sugar. 

Elvira —Where is mammy? 

Fanny. (Coming in the door with packages in her 
hand)—Heah I is. 

Simon (To Elvira)—Ain’t you goin’ to ask me to 
sit down? 

Fanny —Elvira, he is goin’ to stay for supper. 

Elvira —How come pappy didn’t come back with 
yo’ all? 

Fanny —He am out in de back, unhitchin’ de 
bosses. 

Elvira —Simon, how come yuh to be heah wif my 
mammy ’n pappy? 

Simon —Little queen o’ my heart, I met up wif 
dem in town, ’n when I sees dem I axed to take me 
’long so’s I could see my little Magnolia blossom. 

Elvira —Simon, what is you aimin’ to do? Is yuh 
makin’ love to me, jes’ like yus does to all de odder 
gals I heard ’bout? 

Simon —Kin de hummin’ bird, keep way f’um de 
honeysuckle vine? Sugar, I’se human. 

Elvira —Das jes’ it. You is jes’ too human. 


’Limination 


89 


Simon —^Bin dat little nigger a-talkin’ to yuh 
agin’? 

Elvira —Means which? 

Simon —Means dat little white-livered Mose’ which 
use’ whine heah ’bouts mos’ o’ de time. 

Fanny (Going over to the bed and sitting on it 
with her legs very near to where Moses’ head is pro¬ 
truding out from under the bed cover)—Dat dar 
no’count nigger don’t newer come triflin’ ’round 
’bout heah no mo’. 

Elvira —’Count of he am sc air t o’ you. 

Fanny —He sho’ do stay ’way f’um heah. Uh huh. 
He am makin’ hisse’f scarce. 

Simon —I reckons he am a smart nigger after all. 
I don’t guess he aims to come ’round heah no mo’. 

Fanny —I doesn’t reckon he does, Elvira, Simon 
say he got a secret. 

Elvira —A which? 

Simon —A secret. 

Elvira —How come a secret? 

Simon —I’se aimin’ to tell yuh, when yo’ daddy 
come in. 

Elvira (With Alarm)—It ain’t ’bout Mose’ am it? 

Simon —Him, Lawdy no. 

Elvira —Ef it ain’t ’bout him what kind o’ secret 
am it? 


90 


’Limination 


Simon —Tears you is pow’ful taken up wif dat 
no ’count nigger. 

Elvira —We was jes’ talkin’ ’bout him, wan’t we? 

Simon —No honey, dis yere secret am jes’ ’bout 
you, I’se fixin’ to tell yuh, sugar puddin’, soon as 
yo’ daddy come in. 

Elvira (Going to the door)—Dar he am now. 
(She goes out to meet him). 

Fanny —Ain’t nuthin’ to keep yuh from stayin’ 
fo’ supper, am dar, Simon? 

Simon —I don’ reckon dar em. In fack, I hopes 
to be heah very frequent in de future. 

Fanny —^What am yuh fixin, to say, Simon? 

Simon —It am de secret which I is ’bout to pro¬ 
mulgate soon as yo’ reverend husband comes in. 

Fanny —Dar’s some’pn ’bout dis dat I doesn’t 
’xactly care ’bout. (As she hears Elvira and Lige 
come in.) Dar dey is. 

Lige —Well Simon, yuh am ’musin’ de ladies as 
customary? 

Simon —I craves de company o’ de ladies at all 
times. 

Fanny —I reckons dat yuh kin tell us dat dar se¬ 
cret o’ you’s now, Simon. 

Simon —Yo’ is a preacher ’o de gospel, Mr. Wil¬ 
liams? 

Lige —I is. 


XlMINATION 


91 


Simon —Yuh got yo’ preachin* papers f’um de 
church? 

Lige —Yas, I has de papers. Wait, Til fetch dem. 

Simon —No. Yo’ word am not questioned. 

Fanny (Darkly)—Reckon it am not hear ’bouts. 

Simon —Den yuh kin marry folks? 

Lige —I reckons as how I kin. 

Simon —Has yuh ever married folks? 

Lige —Mos’ everybody ’roun’ heah fo’ de las’ ten 
years, sence I come heah. 

Simon —Kin folks git married ’thout a paper? 

Lige —No. Yuh got to git a license. 

Simon (Drawing a paper out of his pocket and 
showing it to Lige)—Ain’t dis heah one of dem 
license yuh was talkin’ ’bout? 

Lige —Kin yuh read, Simon? 

Simon —No suh. 

Lige —^Where f’um did yuh git dis yere paper? 

Simon —Down at de gen’ral store. Come it ain’t 
no good? 

Lige —Sho* it am. 

Simon —Uh huh? 

Lige —It am a huntin’ license. 

Simon —I ain’t aimin’ to do no huntin’ I’se aimin’ 
to git married. 

Lige —Marry which? 


92 


’Limination 


Simon —Preacher, Tse aimin’ to marry dis heah 
gal o’ yo’alls, Elvira. 

Elvira —Praise de Lawd. (At this juncture, Moses 
is so shocked at the announcement that Simon has 
just made that he forgets himself and jerks his 
head out from under the bed covers so that it hits 
Fanny’s legs. Fanny screams incoherently about 
*'Hants” and ghosts, and makes a dash for the door 
followed by her husband and daughter and the 
amazed Simon, whose policy seems to be to run first 
and investigate afterwards. They are scarcely out 
of the door when they all peer in to see what the 
commotion was about. Elvira knowing all the time 
what had happened tries to dissuade them from in¬ 
vestigating the matter any further for the time be¬ 
ing. However, they all re-enter the shack continu¬ 
ously, Simon leading, then Elvira followed by Fanny, 
with Lige bringing up the rear). 

Elvira —Simon don’ yuh go in dar after it nohow. 

Simon —I ain’t scart o’ nuthin’. 

Elvira —How come yuh runs den, tell me dat? 

Simon —You all hollered dat it were a hant. 

Fanny —Well some’pn hit me on de legs, it did. 

Lige —Jes’ yo’ ’magination: 

Elvira —Das right, pappy, I don’ guess it were a 
hant. 

Simon —I’se not a gwine to give up dat easy. I’se 
gwine look under dat bed my se’f. 

Elvira —It were’nt un’der de bed. 


’Limination 


93 


Fanny —I weren’t no where else chile, ’cause I was 
settin’ on de bed when it come along. It was a hant. 

Elvira —Ain’t no use to look un’ner de bed. 
Mammy. 

Fanny —Lookin’ am de on’iest way to be sho’ 
honey. 

Elvira —Well, I’se gwine to look un’ner de bed 
my se’f ’n den you all behin’ de stove ’n in de wood 
pile un’ner de table. 

Simon —Honey, I’se gwine to look un’ner de bed 
’cause das whar de trouble done started. 

Elvira —No, don’ do dat. Lawdy, Lawdy. 

Simon (Going to the bed and discovering Moses 
under it)—Heah am you’all’s hant. It am dat dar 
nigger what I am aimin’ to break his bones fo’ to 
pick my teef wif. 

(The scene that follows beggars description. See¬ 
ing that he has been discovered, Moses puts up a 
brave fight with the odds heavily against him. He is 
knocked down repeatedly only to rise again. El¬ 
vira urges him on from the side lines, while the 
parents do nothing but moan and ejaculate; impar¬ 
tial onlookers. Finally Simon deals Moses a terrific 
blow that lays him low). 

Elvira —Simon, you dam black trash. Yuh done 
killed Moses. 

Simon —What ef I done killed him? I’se glad he 
am dead. 


94 


Timination 


Elvira —De law’ll git you sho’. 

Fanny —’N yuh’ll hang fo’ it. 

Simon —^But I wan’t aimin’ to kill him. 

Elvira —But yuh has gone ’n done it jes’ de same. 

Lige—lSl yuh done killed him in our house. 

Fanny —’N de law’ll git after us. 

Simon —I don’ guess I meant to kill him. (Goes 
over to Moses). Lemme look at him. Yassuh. (He 
shudders). He sho* am dead. 

Fanny —^Yuh’d better be fixin’ to git yo’se’f out 
o’ dis hear county or yuh is gwine to be a dead 
nigger, a good ’n dead one. 

Simon (Going out of the door with Lige and 
Fanny)—^Yuh—all knows I didn’ mean to kill him. 
Yuh knows dat doesn’ yuh all? 

Eige (In his best clerical manner)—Brother Si¬ 
mon, dis ought to learn yuh a lesson not to do no 
mo’ killin’ in de open. 

Simon —It have Parson. It have learned me. 

(They all go outside save Elvira who runs over 
to Moses still lying on the floor). 

Elvira —Speak to me honey chile. Mose speak to 
yu’ own sugar puddin’. I loves yuh ’n I’se not gwine 
to marry nobody else ceptin’ yuh. 

Moses (Coming to and rising up)—^Where is I, 
honey? 

Elvira —You is heah wif yo’ own sugar puddin’. 


’Limination 


95 


Moses —Where am Simon? 

Simon (Putting his head in at the door)—Am he 
still dead? 

Elvira —Yas he am still dead, deader ’n a polecat. 

Moses (As Simon disappears)—Did I hurt him 
honey? 

Elvira —No suh, but he like to kill you. 

Moses —Yuh said nuthin’ ’cept de right thing, 
sugar. 

Elvira —Now, we’se got to ’lirninate him. 

Moses —How come? 

Elvira —Simon ain’t got no brains like he got fists, 
das how come? 

Moses —Yas? 

Elvira —Yuh got to play like dead ’til Simon has 
done got out o’ de county. 

Mo$es —I begins to see de light. 

Elvira —I doesn’t guess dat it am gwine to hurt 
yuh to play dead fo’ a little bit. 

Simon (Coming in with Fanny and Lige)—Ain’t 
he come to life yit? 

Elvira —No he ain’t ’n what am mo’ he ain’t a 
gwine to. He am dead fo’ good. 

Simon —Oh Lawd, I didn’t mean to kill him. 

(Fanny bursts into tears, and Lige gets out his 
Bible). 


96 


’Limination 


Elvira —It am fixin’ to git dark, Simon ’n yuh kin 
sneak off, ’n won’t nobody see yuh, ’n know dat yuh 
was heah. But don’ yuh stay ’round heah ’bouts in 
dis part o’ de country or de law sho am gwine to 
git yuh. 

Lige —What am we gwine to do? De law am 
gwine to git us sho’. 

Elvira —We doesn’ git to tell de law nuthin’. We’se 
gwine to bury dis heah nigger jes’ as soon as de 
moon am riz so dat we kin see what we’se doin’. 

Simon —Yuh sho is a smart girl, Elvira. Too bad 
it come about I can’t marry yuh. 

Elvira —^While we is waitin fo’ sundown we kin 
have de funeral. 

Fanny —’N we kin give him a Christian burial. 

Elvira —Pappy, begin it wif a hymn, will yuh? 

(They all sing, even Simon joining in ‘'Swing 
Low Sweet Chariot”, low and gentle, in sweet, mel¬ 
low tones. At the conclusion of the song Fanny 
is sobbing aloud as is Simon while Lige wipes his 
eyes to keep from weeping). 

Elvira —Now Pappy, yuh kin say a prayer fo’ de 
departed. 

Lige (The prayer is said with great feeling and 
emotion. Fanny weeps aloud most of the time but 
manages to put in an "Amen” from time to time 
alternated with ejaculations of a religious nature 
such as "Glory be” and "Praise de Lawd”, a pro- 


’Limination 


97 


fession of faith or religious practice in which she 
is joined by Simon and occasionally by the deceiv¬ 
ing Elvira. The prayer is characteristic, starting out 
slowly and with a certainty as to what the content 
is going to be. Lige works up to the climax that is 
reached when Moses comes to life.) 

Dear Lawd Jesus, we thank yuh fo’ de good 
things that yuh have bestowed upon yo’ chilluns. 
We is grateful and ful o’ gratitude. We thanks you 
fo’ our bread ’n our meat and fo’ our cotton crop 
’tho it have been a drought summer dis year Lawd. 
We thanks yuh fo’ de sunshine, ’n we thanks yuh 
fo’ de possum we is gwine to eat dis heah evenin’, 
’n likewise fo’ everythin’ else. We is sad dat Simon, 
he killed Mose’, but it am jes’ like de Bible, when 
Cain kill his brudder Abel, even tho de Lawd he 
say, yuh mus’n’ kill nobody, not even yo* brudder. 
Maybe it ain’t so bad Lawd, ’cause Moses ain’t Simon 
brudder. He didn’ mean to kill him Lawd, ’n he 
wish dat he war still livin’ don’yuh, Simon? 

Simon —Yas, Lawd. 

Lige —Lawd, de departed was a good Christian, 
’n we hope dat you is aimin’ to let him git t’hu 
dem dar pearly gates what lead to yo’ heavenly man¬ 
sion. Yas Lawd, let him in, fo’ he were a good nig¬ 
ger, and never did no hurt to nobody. ’N Lawd 
fo’give his murderer, Simon. Let him go his way 
like he want to, ’n sin no mo’. Simon am sho’ sorry 
fo’ hisse’f ’n didn’ mean to kill nobody, not even 
Moses. Forgive Simon, ’n wash him in de blood o’ 
de lamb. Lawd Jesus, we grieves fo’ de departed. 


98 


’Limination 


but we feels fo’ de livin’ Simon, ’n ax de protection 
o’ de livin’ Gawd. 

(At this juncture Elvira notices that Simon has 
slipped out of the room into the darkness outside, 
but* she says nothing, permitting her father to con¬ 
tinue his prayer). 

Lige —Dear Lawd we miss de departed, an’ grieves 
dat he am no longer in our midst. Ef it was yo’ 
holy will, we ud ax yuh to let him return to us, but 
being like he am dead he cain’t— 

Elvira (interrupting)—Mose it am all right now. 
Dat Simon trash am gone. He done took de wes’ 
bound T ’n N. O. ’n am gwine fo’ ever. 

Moses (Rising and shaking himself)—Dat am good 
news honey. 

Fanny —Lawdy Jesus, he am come to life. 

Uge —De dead am restored to us ’n liveth. 

Elvira —Mose done bought hisse’f a hcenst at de 
Co’thouse. 

Moses —’N ’tain’t no huntin’ Hcense. 

Lige —Great am de works o’ de Lawd, my chilluns. 

Fanny —Amen. 


Qrude and %](nrefined 

One-act Play 

By 

Margaret Elizabeth Bowen 

Free to amateur organizations where 
no charge is made, otherwise $7.50. 
Permission must be obtained from the 
publishers, Southwest Press 


( 99 ) 






CRUDE AND UNREFINED 

DRAMATIS PERSONAE 


Osage Annie 

Mother_ 

Dad _ 

Junior _ 

Catherine _ 

Kimmie_ 

A Driller. 


_Servant 

_A Spartan 

Of the Soil 
„The Striver 
__-His Thorn 
-The Cherub 


Action takes place at the noon hour. 


Scene: Farm house Dining room. 

The scene is in the dining room of a farm house 
in North Texas. An old timey side board is 
against the wall on the left and a long home¬ 
made table occupies the front center, with un¬ 
painted wooden benches along each side. At 
one end is an old arm chair with sunken leather 
bottom. This is Dad’s Throne. A combination 
writing desk and glassed in book shelves is in 
center of right wall. It has a few volumes but 
many catalogs and rock specimens, showing thru 
the glass. At rear center is a window of eight 
panes, and thru it is seen the fitful flash of a 

(101) 








102 


Crude and Unrefined 


lease flare. Left rear, is a door leading out to the 
porch and a wash basin is just outside the door 
with a roller towel above it. A door leading off 
right downstage opens presumably to sleeping 
quarters, while the one opposite it on the left 
leads to the kitchen. The squeak of a walking 
beam and the screetch of the shackle rods are 
heard outside continuously. The curtain rises 
upon Osage Annie, shuffling around setting the 
table. She is a typical Osage Indian—sleek 
black hair parted in the middle; round fat face 
the color of preserved figs; and a slow steady 
waddle and monosyllabic grunts that occasion¬ 
ally break forth into crude philosophy. Her 
clothes are non-descriptly civilized—except for 
the beaded moccasins and beaded head band. 

Mother enters from bed room door. She is a spar¬ 
tan type of woman, tall and well proportioned 
with broad calm brow from which the brown 
wavy hair is brushed straight back. In her be¬ 
coming print house dress and flat heeled shoes, 
she is the acme of patience and wholesomeness. 
She places napkins of red and white at each 
place. 

Mother —No signs of the children?—yet? 

Annie {Setting table. Without looking up )—Bell 
not ring yet. 

Mother —^Well, dish up things, Annie. They’ll 
be bobbin’ in within ten minutes after it does— 
starved to death. 


Crude and Unrefined 


103 


Annie —Sure. (Ifs more of a grunt than an ar¬ 
ticulation), She shuffles into kitchen while mother 
flutters over the table and hums ''There’s a Long, 
Long Trail a-Winding”. Sounds of scraping boots 
on porch announce the arrival of Dad, who stops 
at the wash basin and very audibly makes his toilet, 
and leans his head around the door while wielding 
the roller towel. 

Mother (leaning against the door-]amb) —Have 
the boys left the rig? 

Dad (Enters, dressed in greasy field clothes— 
buckskin blouse, old riding pants, and laced leather 
boots. He takes worn note book out of shirt pock¬ 
et and writes in it with the stub of a pencil before 
replying,) The first tower is on the way down to 
dinner now. 

Mother (Placing canister and extra dishes off the 
sideboard on the table,) All right. How does it look 
today, Jim? 

Dad —Not so good. The last time we bailed, I 
smelled sea-breezes. 

Mother —Well, we’ll know for sure any minute 
now. (A Ford is heard at close range and at top 
speed. Mother rushes to the window.) Here are 
the children. I hear the whoopie! (Dad whirls his 
"throne” over to the desk, sits down and lights his 
pipe, then goes thru some papers. Annie shuffles 
in with steaming bowls of food and a granite cof¬ 
fee pot. The children burst in shouting and scuff¬ 
ling. Junior, an awkward seventeen year old, whose 


104 


Crude and Unrefined 


clothes can’t keep pace with the growth of his arms 
and legs; Catherine, a freckled, bob-haired girl of 
about fifteen—wears a blue plaited skirt and white 
middie; and Kimmie, the youngest— the darling of 
his Mother^ eyes—wearing overalls. 

Junior —Hello, Dad. Here’s the mail. 

Catherine —Is dinner ready? I’m starved. 

Kimmie —^Where’s Mother? 

Mother —Here’s Muvver, honey. Come give her 
a kissie-kiss. 

Cat her hie —Mother, can’t we go in to the movie 
tonite? They passed out bills at school—and it looks 
keen. Lefs go. {with a teasing intonation and side¬ 
long look at Dad). 

Mother —We’ll see, dear. Go get the ice water 
now, and we’ll see. Junior, was Kimmie a good boy 
today? (Patting Kimmie on head). 

Junior —Oh, he’s all right. Dad, how’s the well 
cornin’ on? 

Dad —About the same, son. The rig isn’t un¬ 
usually greasy yet. 

Junior —Gosh! It’s just got to come in. I don’t 
want to go on livin’ if it’s a dry hole—after all I’ve 
planned to do. 

Mother —Now! Now! Junior. Don’t threaten the 
Lord. What will be WILL be, and if we need that 
well, we’ll get it. 


Crude and Unrefined 


105 


Junior —**Need it”! Heck, weVe GOT to have 
it. The old farm can’t give us anything more AS 
a FARM—and where are we? If we get a duster, 
I go to work and that’s the last you’ll see of me, 
(With a wild threat and swagger), Mother and Dad 
exchange winks as if at an M story and look over- 
alarmed). 

Junior —^You’ll see, by gosh! I’ll show you. (With 
rising temper.) Oh, I know you think I’m just a 
kid, but I’ll grow up over night, when I know 
I’m here to stay—rooted to this damn stinking 
farm. 

Mother —Why, Junior! {Shocked). 

Dad —Cut that out. Son! {Menacingly). 

Catherine —Oh, come on down to earth, all of 
you, and eat before I collapse in a corner. 

Junior sullenly slumps into his place on the rear 
bench, after Dad has given him a disgusted shove 
on the back of the head. Mother shakes her head 
in puzzled worry, and gathers Kim to her side on the 
other end of the rear bench, nearest the kitchen. 
Catherine draws up a chair at one end of the table, 
and Annie replaces Dad’s arm chair at the other. 

Annie —Humph! Me stays on lease because me 
likes it (Exits). 

Catherine —Gee! I’d like it too, if I had ten thou¬ 
sand a month coming in all the rest of my days 
and knew I could dig out any time I wanted to go. 

Mother —Now, Honey, please let this matter drop. 


106 


Crude and Unrefined 


Annie has seen both sides and when she stays on 
here, like she does, it’s just because she’s happier 
here. 

Junior —Don’t class me with an Osage half-wit. 

Catherine —It’s cause she’s afraid of everything 
strange. That’s all. 

'Dad —Say, what the hell started this fight any¬ 
how? (Shocked silence with a frozen stare from 
Mother), Either we get this well or we break 
ground for cotton, and I can’t see that any of us 
are going to starve to death either way she breaks. 
We never have. I’ve kept bread in your mouths for 
eighteen years and I hain’t got my ticket bought for 
no where else. Shut up! 

Kimmie (Snuggling up close to his Mother), 
Ma - a - ma! 

Mother—(Smoothing her hair straight back — 
as if to clear her brain) let’s all be still un¬ 

less we can make our air castles and enjoy them to¬ 
gether. (They eat a while in silence). 

Junior (Bursts forth after a vain attempt to keep 
still) —Well, Gee Gosh, does a guy haff to act tick¬ 
led to death all the time, with a rocky old red dirt 
farm or start a family fight? 

Mother —No, dear. We know you are too ambi¬ 
tious for that. 

Catherine—ThaTs not the idea. June’s just pinin’ 
for the great open spaces of a furnished room in 
some city with a morning newspaper. 


Crude and Unrefined 


107 


Junior (Furious) —Ain’t that a darn girl, for 
you? Make me sick! 

Catherine (Triumphant) —Well, why did you 
send for that Journalism catalog from the corres¬ 
pondence school? 

Junior (Rjestful and embarrassed) —Oh, shut 
your big mouth! You have to snoop and then blab 
all the rest of your life, I reckon. 

Mother —Catherine, don’t try to humiliate your 
brother. I suppose all of us dream of what we’ll 
do when the well comes in. I’m sure I hope it will 
improve our lot. 

Dad (Slowly—as thd" hurt) —^Well by gum! 
When did you start complainin’? 

Mother —Oh, Jim! I’m NOT complaining. It 
seems to me that we are all nervous or touchy 
today. Nothing seems right. 

Dad (Angrily) —There y’ are! "Nothin’ seems 
right” and still you’re "not complainin’ ” (martyr- 
like,) (With louder voice). What’s wrong with this 
place, I’d like to know. (Rising,) It was good 
enough for you when I brung you here. 

Mother —Hush, Jim, you’ve said enough. 

Dad (Shaking his fist) —You can’t shut me up 
like you do the kids. I’m sick of this everlastin’ 
crabbin’ from every durn one o’ ye. 

Junior (Springing up near his mother) —Well, 
what are you goin’ to do about it? 


108 


Crude and Unrefined 


Dad {Making a lunge toward Junior )—Fll show 
you, by God! 

Mother steps in his way, and, in his blind anger, he 
shoves her away and she falls over the bench to the 
floor, 

Catherine {Screaming in terror) —^Dad! Oh, 
Mother! 

Annie appears at the kitchen door. Kimmie runs 
crying to his mother and falls across her neck. Jun¬ 
ior and Dad get to her side at the same time—one 
on each side and Catherine places Dad’s throne for 
her at front center. 

Mother {Slowly opening her eyes as the family 
groups around her in loving solicitation )—^What 
happened? 

Dad {Dropping on one knee with a hoarse sob) — 
The old man lost his head. That’s all. 

Junior —Aw, it was my fault. I egged him on. 

Dad {Utterly contrite) —No, son, there’s no ex¬ 
cuse for me. 

Mother {Same old gesture of smoothing back 
hair) —Well, it’s over now, and it’s a good time for 
us to check up and see just how much happiness 
sudden wealth can bring into our individual lives. 

Catherine —If this is a sample, I hope to heaven 
the old well caves in. We can get along better with¬ 
out it. 

Junior — Sure! I wouldn’t run away and leave 
here anyhow, Ma! 


Crude and Unrefined 


109 


Driller (At porch door) —Hey, Jim, hard luck! 
But she’s a dry hole. 

Dad —Hot Dawg! Boy, who cares? (To Junior) 
— (Laying his arm across his shoulder,) We’ll start 
settin’ out cotton on the south eighty tomorrow, 
son! 

Mother (Brushing away a tear and then smiling) 
—Come here—all of you. I want you to know how 
proud Mother is of every one of you. (Curtain goes 
down as she bundles them into her arms, and Annie 
shuffles around, clearing the table and humming 
^^T her eh a Long, Long Trail a-Winding into the 
Land of my Dreams” 






^he Qoward 

By 

Marjorie Garnett 

No royalty charge to amateur or¬ 
ganizations where no charge is made, 
otherwise $5.00 for production. Per¬ 
mission must be obtained from the 
publishers, Southwest Press. 


(Ill) 







THE COWARD 


ONE-ACT PLAY 
CAST 

Joel Jackson—the coward; Mrs. Jackson—a widow; 
Molly Jackson—her daughter; Frances—Joel’s 
sweetheart; Benny—a soldier. 

SETTING 

In a rude frontier cabin in Texas during the time 
of the revolution. The cabin is sparsely fur¬ 
nished with only the necessities of life. 

ACT I—SCENE I 

Molly —I am living in suspense. Everything is so 
upset by the war. Robert has been killed, and Sam 
is fighting. Mother and I have to work so hard, 
and every minute we are afraid of the Mexicans. 

Frances —I know it’s hard, but don’t Joel protect 
you? 

Molly —Yes, he does, but he should be fighting. 

( 113 ) 


114 


The Coward 


Frances —Why you know he would go right away, 
if he was old enough. He is only sixteen, you know, 
and he works harder than either you or Mrs. Jack- 
son. 

Molly —You always seem to excuse Joel somehow, 
I know! I believe you like him. 

Frances (coloring) —No—no—well—^yes. 

Molly —Well, I thought so, but I think you are 
making a mistake. Why Sam is crazy about you, 
and when he comes home from war—if he does—he 
will marry you. Joel can’t hold a candle to Sam, and 
you know it. 

Frances —I don’t care what you say. I like Joel 
best, and I always will. 

(Enter Mrs. Jackson). 

Mrs, Jackson —^What’s all this? Hello Frances, 
glad to see you. Any news from the settlement? 

Frances —Nothing new, but have you heard all 
the news from the front? 

Mrs, Jackson —No, I don’t know any more than 
I did since I got Sam’s letter, telling me of the 
death of my Robert. (She paused and covered her 
face with her apron sobbing). 

Molly —Mother, mother, don’t cry, don’t cry. 
Robert died for his country and his people. He was 
a hero. Hadn’t you rather he would die fighting 
like a man? Mother, oh, Mother wouldn’t you give 
your sons for Texas? 


The Coward 


115 


Mrs. Jackson —Yes, Molly, you are right. I will¬ 
ingly give my son for Texas. I will sacrifice every¬ 
thing, but it would be easier for me to give my 
own life than the life of my boy. Now Sam is 
is fighting. Oh God, I hope he is spared, but yet I 
would lose him if by his death Texas could be free. 

Frances —Mrs. Jackson, I admire you. You are 
so brave, and work so hard, and suffer so many 
hardships. 

Mrs. Jackson —Frances, it helps me just to look 
at you. You are a comfort to anyone. I would be 
so, so glad to have you for a daughter-in-law. 

Frances —Oh, Mrs. Jackson! 

Mrs. Jackson —^Yes, I mean it. Sam is in love 
with you, the dear boy. In his letter he told me to 
kiss you for him. 

Frances (confused) —But—but—oh—oh— 

Mrs. Jackson —And I am going to carry out his 
wish. (Kisses Frances on the cheek). 

(Enter Joel). 

Joel —Hello everybody. Why hello Frances. So 
glad to see you. What news from town? 

Mrs. Jackson (sternly)—Joel, did you chop that 
cotton in the northeast corner of the patch? 

Joel —Yes, ma. 

Mrs. Jackson —Did you water the oxen? 

Joel —Yes. 

Mrs. Jackson —Did you bring in the wood? 


116 


The Coward 


Joel —Yes, and that’s all I’ve got to do. 

Mrs. Jackson —Go harness the old ox and drive 
Frances home. She walked all the way here just to 
seci us. 

Joel (smiling at Frances)—I’d be delighted to 
drive you home. 

(Exit Joel). 

Frances —^Mrs. Jackson, don’t you think Joel is 
handsome? 

Mrs. Jackson —Handsome? My goodness me! Poor 
Robert was so handsome, but I can’t see it in Joel. 

Molly —Well for once, Frances, I agree with you. 
I do think Joel is good looking. 

(Enter Joel). 

Joel (bowing)—The carriage is awaiting you, my 
lady. 

Frances (curtsying)—My lord, I am coming. (Joel 
escorts her out). 

(Exit Joel and Frances). 

Molly —Mother, how cute they are together. 

Mrs. Jackson —No, she is for Sam. 

Molly —Mother, why is it you never seem to love 
Joel as much as Robert and Sam? 

Mrs. Jackson —^Listen daughter, while I tell you. 
Joel is not my son. 

Molly (astonished)—^What! No, mother, not 
really! 


The Coward 


117 


Mrs. Jackson —Yes, it is true. His mother was 
my sister, and she married a handsome young man 
whom she had only known two weeks. He was a 
cowardly deserter from the United States Army. 
He ran away from danger. He deserted my sister 
when Joel was three months old. Two months later 
my sister died. I took the poor little baby and raised 
him as my own son. My sister had named him Joel 
after her despisable husband. I hated that man with 
all my heart. He caused the death of my sister. Joel 
is like him. He looks like him; he acts like him; and 
try as I may I cannot love him as I do my own 
two sons. Later Joel’s father was shot when he was 
trying to get away with a stolen horse. I have never 
told Joel anything. Don’t you, because I want to 
make a man of him, if I can. 

Molly —^Why doesn’t he enlist? 

Mrs. Jackson —I told him once to go but he 
wouldn’t. I am afraid he would turn a traitor or 
coward, and I could not stand the disgrace after 
Robert has given his life so nobly. Sam is fighting 
so bravely for his country. 

Molly —^Mother, I think I understand, and I will 
never tell him. 

Mrs. JacJison —I knew you wouldn’t, Molly, or 
I would never have told you. You are one girl 
who can keep secrets. 

Molly —^What is Joel’s real name? 

Mrs. Jackson —It is Joel Mansfield. 

Molly —Joel Mansfield? 


118 


The Coward 


Mrs. Jackson —Yes, and how I despise that name! 
Joel’s father appeared so gallant and charming. No 
wonder my poor sister fell in love with him. Every¬ 
one liked this dashing fellow. No one knew what he 
really was. 

Molly —That’s just like Joel, Mother. 

Mrs. Jackson —Yes indeed, I am afraid that boy 
will cause me trouble. 

Molly —And he is in love with Frances. 

Mrs. Jackson (sadly)—Oh, I know that only too 
well, and he will win her, too. That is why I am 
trying to help my Sam. He loves her and will make 
her a far better husband that Joel ever could. 

Molly —Sh, sh! Here comes Joel. 

(Enter Joel). 

Joel —Well folks, I escorted my fair lady to her 
place of abode without a mishap. 

Mrs. Jackson —Well then, peel those potatoes. 

Joel (Scornfully)—That is a girl’s job. Me peel 
potatoes? I should say not. Peel the potatoes, Molly. 

Molly —I will, Joel, if you’ll milk Bess for me. 

Joel (tickling her chin)—Sure I will for you. 

I simply love to milk a cow, 

I think it’s very jolly, 

I really don’t mind it at all 
If I’m doing it for Molly. 

How’s that for a rhyme? Wonderful boy, I am. Be¬ 
hold! milkmaid and poet all in one! Don’t you think 
I am a wonderful boy, Molly? 


The Coward 


119 


Molly —Ah, Joel. 

(Exit Joel). 

Mrs, Jackson —I just wish I could get more news 
of the war. It looks mighty bad to me. It seems as 
if those damnable Mexicans have the upper h3nd. 
If they win and put us back under their subjection 
then my boy’s life would have been given in vain. 
Why—why—I would—I would—I—don’t know 
what I would do! It would be more than I could 
stand. 

Molly —Don’t talk of such things, Mother. I will 
go out and see if I can gather any news. 

(Exit Molly). 

Mrs. Jackson busies herself in straightening up 
the cabin. She sweeps the floor, stirs the kettle 
boiling over the fireplace, and sets things in order. 

(Enter Joel). 

Joel —Well, mother, the cow is milked, and the 
milk is put up. Yes, I washed the buckets. I’ll tell 
you before you ask me. Where is Molly? 

Mrs. Jackson —She has gone to see if she can find 
out anything of the fighting. 

Joel —Mother, I guess you wonder why I don’t 
fight for Texas. I have two good reasons. One is 
that I am too young; another is that I have to care 
for you and Molly. What would happen if I de¬ 
serted you? You know you can’t get along without 
me. I help Texas the most by protecting my mother 
and sister from the vile Mexicans. 

(Enter Molly hurriedly). 


120 


The Coward 

Molly (excitedly)—Oh, Mother, Mother, the 
Mexicans—the Mexicans are coming. We had better 
flee. Quick, oh hurry! 

Mrs. Jackson —Molly, Molly, dear girl, compose 
yourself. 

Molly —But Mother, if the Mexicans come they 
will kill us all. 

Mrs. Jackson —Keep still, child. I will run from 
no Mexicans. Not even before Santa Anna, himself, 
would I move a step. My husband and I fought for 
this land, and it cost him his life. Here have I 
raised my children and here I will remain. Come 
on, come on. I challenge you, cowardly Mexican 
dogs to come and kill, and destroy! You have killed 
one son, and another is fighting, just come on and 
exterminate what is left of us for I will never run 
from you. No, never! 

Molly —Mother! 

Mrs. Jackson —I mean every word. Now you two, 
off to bed. Forget the Mexicans. They will not 
come. 

(Exit Molly and Joel). 

Mrs. Jackson extinguishes the lamp, and sits medi¬ 
tating by the dying embers of the fireplace. Someone 
knocks on the door. 

Voice from Outside —Mrs. Jackson, open the door! 

(Mrs. Jackson opens the door). 

(Enter Frances). 

Mrs. Jackson —Frances! The Mexicans, have they 
come? Quick, have they come? 


The Coward 121 

Frances —No, no. Mrs. Jackson, sit down, and 
light the lamp. 

Mrs. /<?cAso;^—Frances, Frances, tell me. Oh, I am 
afraid. It is bad news. I know, I feel it is. Call 
Molly. 

Frances (knocking on the door)—Molly, call Joel, 
and come in. It is Frances. 

(Enter Molly). 

Molly —What is wrong? What is it? 

Frances —Call Joel. 

Molly (going to the door)—Joel, come in quick. 
Joel, Joel, hurry. 

(Enter Joel). 

Joel —What has happened? 

Frances —Sit down all of you. I will tell you as 
quickly as I can. 

Mrs. Jackson —Oh, Sam. It is Sam. 

Frances (trembling)—I just heard. I came as fast 
as I could tell you, but—but—Was Sam with 
Travis in the Alamo? 

Mrs. Jackson —Yes (sobbing). Yes, oh my son, my 
boy. 

Frances —Travis had one hundred and fifty men 
at the Alamo, and Sunday Santa Anna stormed the 
Alamo with three thousand men. (Tearfully). It 
was terrible—a massacre—every man in it killed, 
and Sam, Sam was in there, Crockett and Bowie too. 
I—I can’t—just can’t talk of it or think of it. Mrs. 


122 


The Coward 


Jackson, I wanted to be the one to tell you. Oh, 
Sam died a hero and has won an imperishable glory. 
He defended Texas, and gave his life like Robert. 
Mrs. Jackson, be proud, be proud of your sons. 

Mrs. Jackson —My boy, my Sam; Robert and Sam, 
my sacrifice on the altar for Texas freedom. God 
grant us victory, after such a price as I have paid. 

Molly (putting her arm around her mother) — 
Come Mother, come in the other room. It is more 
than you can bear, now. 

(Exit Mrs. Jackson and Molly). 

Frances —Joel, it is awful. Poor Mrs. Jackson. 

Joel (catching her hand)—Frances, dear, I feel 
sorry for Mother. She has had more than her share, 
it seems. 

Frances (drawing away her hand)—^Why don’t 
you fight? Why don’t you avenge Sam and Rob¬ 
ert’s death. Why do you stay at home when all 
men are fighting? Don’t you love your country? 

Joel —Frances, Frances, you don’t understand. Let 
me tell you— 

Frances —Don’t say a word. I understand perfect¬ 
ly—you are a coward. 

(Joel stands speechless staring at her. Goes to¬ 
wards the door). 

Frances —Joel, Joel where are you going? 

Joel —To war, I will prove to you that I am not 
what you say. 

(Exit Joel). 


The Coward 


123 


Frances (screaming)—Molly, oh, Molly, Mrs. 
Jackson! 

(Enter Molly and Mrs. Jackson). 

Molly —Frances, what is it now? 

Frances —Oh, Joel, Joel’s gone. 

Mrs, Jackson —Gone? 

Molly —Gone where? 

Frances —To fight. 

Mrs, Jackson —To fight? Joel? 

Frances (crying)—Yes, yes, it is all my fault. 
I—I told him he was a coward, and he left and 
said he was going to prove that what I said wasn’t 
so. Oh, Joel, Joel, if anything happens to him I am 
to blame. 

Molly —There, there, Frances don’t take it so 
hard. Other boys have gone to war before. 

Frances —But—but Joel is different. 

Molly —I am so glad he was man enough to go. 

Mrs. Jackson —I was afraid of this. 

Frances —Afraid of what? 

Mrs. Jackson, —Nothing, nothing, child, but he 
left on the spur of the moment while his temper was 
hot. I don’t know what he will do when he cools 
down. 

Molly —Mother, Mother, don’t talk so. You are 
worried, and not yourself. Come, lets all go to bed. 
Frances you must stay tonight. 

(Exit Frances, Mrs. Jackson and Molly). 


124 


The Coward 


ACT I—SCENE II 

(Enter Mrs. Jackson and Molly). 

Mrs. Jackson —Molly, how long has it been since 
Sam was killed in the Alamo, and Joel went away? 

Molly —Almost a month. Mother. 

Mrs. Jackson —It is lonesome without Joel. I never 
realized how much he really meant to me until 
he went away. It seems strange we get no letters 
from him. 

Molly —All I have been able to find out is that he 
joined General Houston’s Army. 

Mrs. Jackson —It seems that everything is against 
us. We have been defeated so far. All our remaining 
hope is with Houston. 

Molly —And he is fast retreating, they say. 

Mrs. Jackson —Yes, I have given up. I have lost 
my spirit. Nothing seems the same anymore. I am 
merely existing . . . there is nothing to live for. 

Molly —^Yes, it is bad but we must face the worst 
squarely. There may be something left for us yet. 

(Mrs. Jackson goes to the open door and gazes 
out over the prairies). 

Mrs. Jackson —What a magnificient sunset—all 
splendid and red. It is the sunset of my life, my 
hopes. Watch! slowly, slowly, it is sinking. Soon it 
will be dark. That will mean despair. Oh, it is 


The Coward 


125 


fading, going down, leaving me in darkness. Come 
to me, Molly. You are all that is left. See the sun¬ 
set? See its meaning? Ah, it has vanished. We are 
doomed. 

Molly —^Please, Mother, please don’t talk so. It is 
madness. Don’t you know that after every sunset 
comes the dawn? Sunset is a sign of dying sorrow, 
for happiness will dawn tomorrow. 

Mrs, Jackson —Oh, Molly, dear I hope you are 
right. 

Molly —Come, we must fix supper. 

(They set the table with rude bowls and two 
wooden spoons. Soup is poured from the kettle into 
the bowls. Then they sit down and begin to eat). 

(Enter Frances). 

Frances —Pardon me, please, I didn’t know you 
were at supper. 

Mrs, Jackson —^You are welcome any time, Frances. 
Come, sit down. 

(Frances pulls up a chair). 

Molly —^What is it, Frances? You seem fairly 
bursting with good news. 

Frances —I can’t hold it any longer. Texas is free! 

(Molly jumps up knocking over her chair). 

Mrs, Jackson —Say it again, Frances, say it again. 

Frances- —Freedom! Freedom! Glorious freedom! 
Santa Anna was defeated at San Jacinto! Hail Hous¬ 
ton, our victorious commander! 


126 


The Coward 


Molly —Joel! Joel! Joel! Wasn’t he with Houston? 

Frances (joyously)—Yes! 

Mrs, Jackson (crying)—It is too much, and all 
at once. I thought life’s sunset had come. Now in a 
few minutes life is rosy once more. 

Molly —Rosy! Why it’s bright red with happiness. 
I told you. I told you. 

Frances —And Joel will be coming home to us 
again. 

Molly —And everything will be lovely once more. 
Let’s eat our supper before it gets cold. 

Mrs, Jackson —This is the first happiness I have 
had in many a year. 

Molly —Tell us the details, Frances. 

Frances —It was a surprise attack. Benny was 
sent to spread the victory, and he gave me all the 
particulars. He said that Houston planned the at¬ 
tack. You see, the Mexicans had been following 
Houston, thinking he was retreating. Of course, he 
really was but he was also leading them into a trap. 
At San Jacinto Houston pitched camp. The men 
were tired from the hard marching and Houston 
said they would attack the next day. The following 
day in the afternoon when all the Mexicans were 
taking their siesta, the Texans swarmed down on 
them. Deaf Smith and some others had cut down 
Vince’s bridge so there was no retreat; they had 
to win. The Texans cried "Remember the Alamo” 
and "Remember Goliad”. They simply slaughtered 


The Coward 


127 


the Mexicans, so Benny says. It was a very decisive 
battle, and Santa Anna was captured. Isn’t it all 
too wonderful? Benny said the poor Mexicans would 
cry "Me no Alamo” "Me no Goliad”. The battle 
was over in about eighteen minutes, but the chase 
and captures went on ’till that night. I asked Benny 
about Joel. He said he was in the battle, but that 
he was coming over here tonight to tell you all 
about him. He said he had a note from Joel, but he 
wouldn’t tell me anything about it. One reason I 
came over here tonight was to be here when he 
comes. 

Mrs. Jackson —How did he look when he told you 
about Joel? 

Frances —Why he looked—well—I guess sort of 
grave. But you can’t tell about Benny, he’s always 
fooling you about things. 

Mrs. Jackson —Grave? 

Molly —But, Mother it doesn’t mean a thing. I 
know Benny. He is always being mysterious about 
the simplest things. 

Mrs. Jackson —But that isn’t a simple thing—Joel’s 
message. 

Frances —No, we will just have to wait for Benny. 

(Knocking is heard outside). 

Mrs. Jackson —It’s Benny. Open the door Molly. 

(Molly opens the door). 

(Enter Benny). 

Mrs. Jackson —Good evening, Benny, have a chair. 


128 


The Coward 


Benny —Has Frances told you of our glorious 
victory? 

Molly —Of course. 

Mrs. Jackson —Benny, Frances says you have a 
note from Joel. 

Benny (solemnly)—Yes. 

Mrs. Jackson (impatiently)—Well, for goodness 
sake, let me see it. 

Benny —It is for Frances. 

Frances —For me? 

Benny —Yes, Frances, I do not know what it con¬ 
tains. It was only given me to deliver, but I fear— 

Molly —Oh, no, nothing of the kind. Joel never 
tells bad news. 

(Benny takes the letter from his pocket, and 
hands it to Frances. She reads it through, catches on 
to the back of a chair and lets the letter flutter to 
the floor. Molly picks it up and reads it aloud). 

To My Dearest, Beloved Frances —I am dying, 
slowly dying. The bullet in my side is torturing me 
while I write. Texas is free. I have given my life. 
There is only one thing I want to do before I die, 
and I am doing it now. You know I loved you. Be¬ 
fore you get this letter, I will be gone. That is why 
I write. You said such cruel words to me, but I for¬ 
give you. You were right, I had to prove myself. 
You made a man of me. I owe all to you, darling. 
My dying words are—I am not a coward. 

THE END 


^exas ^^istory 
<3Hay 

THE CAVALIER FROM 
FRANCE 


By 

Jan Isbelle Fortune 


( 129 ) 







TEXAS HISTORY PLAY 

The Cavalier from France 

The time is 1685. The scene is in La Salle’s room at 
Ft. St. Louis on the Lavaca River. La Salle and 
his group of colonists have invaded Spanish ter¬ 
ritory and established the first white settlement 
in what is now the state of Texas. La Salle and 
his men are on the point of going forth on fur¬ 
ther explorations. This is La Salle’s second voy¬ 
age to the new world. On a former trip he had 
come down the Mississippi River. But when he 
came again seeking the great river, he had been 
unable to locate it. Provisions have run low. 
There is much dissatisfaction in the camp. 

The characters in the order of their appearance: 
Father Duval, a priest; Rene Robert Cavalier, 
Le Sieur La Salle, of France; Jean Reneaud, an 
orphan girl whose brother died of the fever early 
in the expedition; Duhaut; Morganet. 

As the curtain rises it reveals a roughly hewn log 
house with small apertures for defense against 
the Indians, who till now have been friendly 
enough; the room is furnished with a crude 
table, chairs, and a bunk against a wall. To 
the left is a door leading to a similar room in 

( 131 ) 


132 


Texas History Play 


the fort; to the right is the heavily barred outer 
door. A single candle gutters on the table, at 
which are seated La Salle and Father Duval. In 
the room beyond there is first heard the sound 
of shouts, laughter, and song. Then Father 
Duval speaks sadly: 

Father Duval —La Salle, my son, it is a sorry deed 
these men of yours have done. I see no cause for all 
this merrymaking. 

La Salle —I know Father. They did wrong to steal 
the canoes from the Indians. I sent hatchets for hon¬ 
orable exchange. But the heathens apparently could 
make neither head nor tail of my men’s sign lan¬ 
guage. 

(More laughter and shouts). 

Father —That’s no excuse for taking what is not 
theirs. I fear that trouble will come of it if the In¬ 
dians discover who has done the thieving. We should 
come into this new land to set an example before 
these savages—not for brigandage. 

La Salle —I know—I know. But Duhaut could 
not make them understand. He said he spoke and 
made motions till he was fit to burst with anger 
and red in the face. But all they did was to stand 
and gape like fools. And then, Morganet, who’s 
ever hot of head and quick of temper, devised the 
plan of taking the canoes after the dusk had fallen. 
And after all, Father, we are in straits for boats. 
We must have canoes if we go up the river. 


Texas History Play 


133 


Father —True, my son. But we do not need them 
badly enough to steal them. And if the Indians 
discover the trickery, they’ll be down upon this 
fort like maddened wolves. 

La Salle —They’re simple as children, these savages. 

Father —And as unreasonable as children when 
they’re angry. (Pauses). They’re getting very gay 
in there. The wine is working. (Loud sounds of 
laughter, shouts, voice chanting: "We’ll fill the 
brimming wassail bowl and drink health to our 
ladies—and drink health to our ladies—and drink 
health to our ladi-ees”. More shouts, pounding ta¬ 
bles, laughter). 

La Salle —Yes, tonight they celebrate. In three 
days, we start to look for the Mississippi once more. 
The lack of canoes were all that held us back. Pray 
for us; Father, in this strange and alien land. 

Father —I will, my son. I shall pray daily for 
your safe return. God grant it, and that there be 
no bloodshed with these Indians. It is not right that 
we should war with them. This is their land and 
they—(Enter Jean, breathless). 

]ean —Monsieur Le Cavalier—the little Indian 
boy—the one you saved from drowning last Sab¬ 
bath—he has been here—he says that the Indians— 
he says 

La Salle and Father —Yes—yes— 

'jean —He says that the tribe is making war medi¬ 
cine around the camp-fire tonight—because that 


134 


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Monsieur Morganet and Monsieur Dahaut took 
their canoes and many buffalo skins—^he says they 
will attack— 

La Salle —The fools—the fools—to have risked 
bringing this upon us. 

Lather —it means massacre, Cavalier yes, my child 
—quickly—and then what? 

]ean —He said they would burn the fort and scalp 
the men—and carry the women into captivity. And 
then he scuttled away into the shadows—and I 
closed the aperture—and ran to tell you— 

La Salle —An attack—and the men all filled with 
foggy thoughts from wine. The women and chil¬ 
dren, Jean, tell them I said to go quickly into the 
inner room and remain. Go quickly. Run. (Calling). 
Duhaut—Morganet—Come in here! 

(Shouts and laughter). 

La Salle —The fools—the fools—better to wait an¬ 
other six months for the Indians to become friendly 
and trade with us than to be wiped out in one 
night because of haste for boats. God, to undo this 
deed before the innocents suffer! Well, if they at¬ 
tack, they shall pay dear for it. Hand me the pow¬ 
der, Father, and let me load. (Door opens and 
closes). 

Morganet (Tipsy)—Le Cavalier—hie—desired 

our presence? 

La Salle (sharply)—Slap that drunkenness from 
your face, Morganet. The Indians are preparing an 
attack on the fort. 


Texas History Play 


135 


Morganet —Duhaut, Indians—did you hear that? 
Indians are—hie—preparing to attack. 

Duhaut (also tipsy)—^Most peculiar thing, Mor- 
ganet. Never really get to enjoying myself in this 
new country but what Cavalier doesn’t send word 
that Indians on warpath or lions outside, or bears 
climbing up fort or something, ever notice it? 

Morganet —Just gonna mention it myself—pecu¬ 
liar—very peculiar. Now take the Indians, f’r in¬ 
stance,—peculiar race of people—very peculiar— 
especially ’bout canoes—but sociable—peaceable— 
no harm to ’em. And he says—hie—they’re gonna 
attack? Idea of them attacking us! ’s absurd— 
perfectly absurd. 

Duhaut —^What Le Cavalier need is I’il drink— 
that’s all—just a I’il drink— 

La Salle —Father, can you make them realize the 
seriousness of this—or must I bat their heads to¬ 
gether till they’re sober? 

Lather —^Here you, Duhaut—stop it! Look at 
me—can you shoot? Can you? We need you— 

Duhaut —Asks me can I shoot! Did you hear that? 
Asks me can I shoot? Me—when I cut my teeth on 
a gun butt—can I shoot— 

La Salle —What’s that? (Pause). They’re coming— 
the Indians are coming,— (Long Indian yippee heard 
in the distance, thud of many horses’ feet). 

La Salle (Flinging open door of room on the 
revelers)—Every man to his post, full-armed. The 


136 


Texas History Play 


Indians are upon us. Put out the lights. Wait for 
no command. Fire and reload and fire! Here, 
Duhaut, here’s powder—here Morganet. Blow out 
the candle, Father. Here’s an extra gun if one of 
yours should jam— 

Father —I’ll take the extra gun, my son. Let 
Duhaut and Morganet look to their own weapons. 

La Salle —Fire men! Don’t wait—they must not 
gain entrance—(roar of guns—shouts, yippees of 
Indians). 

La Salle —Down went that beggar! Oh, you 
would, would you? (roar of gun). We’ll see. 

Morganet —God, where’s that powder horn? I 
can’t see to load, (more guns roar). 

Father —You should have learned to load in the 
dark, my son. Ah! (gun roar). That’s three more. 

Duhaut (Pettishly)—I can’t see the heathens in 
this starlight. 

La Salle —Don’t blame your poor vision on the 
starlight, Duhaut. I can see them well enough. 

Cry —Oh, God; Cavalier—Cavalier! 

Father —Some one is wounded, my son. 

La Salle (a little distance away)—Pierre has an 
arrow thru his shoulder. I can’t get it out in the 
dark. He’s bleeding badly. Are the beggars closing 
in? 

(More gun roars—shouts—groans—wild Indian 
yells). 


Texas History Play 


137 


Father —^Do you need help, Cavalier? I cannot 
well leave my post. 

La Salle —Fm afraid he’s done for—poor lad. 

(Enter Jean). 

Jean —Monsieur Le Cavalier—I heard some one 
cry out - 

La Salle —You must get back to the women where 
it is more sheltered, Jean. 

Jean —No—no—we may all die soon, anyway. 
Give me a gun. 

La Salle —Father, tell her to go back. 

Jean —No, Father do not send me back. Let us 
help^— 

(Guns again, Indian yells, cries of "More powder 
—more powder!”) 

Jean —I can carry the powder to the men. 

Father —I will carry the powder, my child. But 
Pierre has an arrow thru his shoulder. Is there 
anything you can do for him in the dark? 

Jean —Where—where—at which post. Cavalier? 
Oh, here! the terrible thing—all winged with 
feathers. I can feel them—Pierre—Pierre! He 
doesn’t answer. Cavalier, he is unconscious. Let me 
carry him in to the women. Madame Burchard is 
stirring some herbs on a tiny flame. We will dress 
the wound— 

(Another roar of guns). 

La Salle —Carry him—you carry him Jean? He’s 
dead weight.— 


138 


Texas History Play 


Jean (Laughing)—You do not know, Cavalier, 
how strong I am. See, like a baby I lift him. He is 
very slight. Careful—in the dark I tread upon 
your toes,—I will be back, Monsieurs. (Shout, gun 
shots again). 

Father —^Well, my son, I powdered them all 
around. I think it’s nearly over. Duhaut, Morganet, 
—do you need more powder? 

Duhaut —No, Father I still have several rounds 
left. They seem to be going, though one can’t be 
sure. 

Morganet —^We took good count of them. How 
many of our men are out? 

Father —Only two with slight wounds—except 
for Pierre. Thank God for that. 

Silence. Desultory shots. (Silence again). 

La Salle —They’re gone now. They weren’t ex¬ 
pecting us to be all ready for them. I’m glad in¬ 
deed I happened to earn the gratitude of the In¬ 
dian lad. See Duhaut, and you, too, Morganet, what 
your thievery has done for us? I sent you with 
hatchets to trade for the canoes and skins. Have 
you no thought of the innocent ones who must suf¬ 
fer for your deed? 

Duhaut (Sullenly)—You know we had to have 
the canoes. Sire. 

La Salle —True—but little good they’d have done 
us if the Indian had burned the fort. Or worse still, 
lifted the scalps from our heads. Think twice be- 


Texas History Play 


139 


fore you do such another fool-hardy thing. Fll not 
countenance it, do you understand. 

Duhaiit (Sullenly)—Yes, Sire. 

La Salle —Come, Father, let us go in to the women 
and see how Pierre is faring. Make no light yet 
awhile, Duhaut. The Indians need have no such 
sure target, should they return. Careful, Father, that 
door sill. Jean—Jean, we are coming to see after 
Pierre, Father and I. 

Jean (A little away)—Here, Sire, to the right. 
(Sound of closing door). (Silence). 

Duhaut (Fiercely)—A fine one—La Salle—to 
blame us with the raid—when he’s a helpless lead¬ 
er who does not even know where the Mississippi 
River is, now that he’s away from it. 

Morganet —And as for boats to go exploring 
with—he’d never have had them unless we had 
caught those savages napping and lifted them. I’ll 
tell you, Duhaut, this colony needs a real man at the 
head of it—one who can take the leadership. 

Duhaut —There you spoke the truth, lad. Twice 
already the provisions have run low. My belly never 
knew the feel of my backbone before this trip. And 
then the, fever at Matagorda. La Salle himself 
scarce recovered from it. He’s still a shadow. He’ll 
be a burden on the voyage. We need a man at the 
head of this. (Silence). 

Morgaftet —This cursed dark! A light would be 
most welcome. The shadows make me creepy. 


140 


Texas History Play 


T>uhaut —Let’s have a drink—that’ll put heart 
into us again—that will chase the shadows. Here’s 
the bottle, Morganet, drink deep. (Silence). Ay, 
you spoke the truth. This expedition needs a man 
at the head of it. 

Morganet —A—ah, but the liquor does warm one. 
(Silence). 

Duhaut —This colony were better off without 
La Salle. I even believe his maps are useless, for all 
the pains he’s been to make them so carefully. ’Tis 
certain he cannot find the Mississippi again. And 
the Indians will be anything but friendly after 
this. Yes, I think we need a real man to lead us, 
Morganet, a real man. 

Morganet —I agree with you, Duhaut. 

Duhaut —Yes, it needs a man. Here’s the bottle, 
Morganet. Let’s drink again—to the success of the 
expedition. With a real leader! One with initiative. 

Morganet —To the success of the expedition! 

Duhaut (Significantly)—To the success of the 
expedition! Morganet! (Silence). 

Morganet —We’d have had no canoes if I hadn’t— 

Duhaut —Sure, he even owes his boats to you— 
take another drink. It takes a man to overcome such 
obstacles. We need one like you as our leader. 

La Sallees Voice (Heard distantly)—I have a 
soothing lotion, Jean, that I brought with me from 
France. Perhaps that will ease the pain. (Voice 


Texas History Play 


141 


nearer). In the dark it may be difficult to find, 
but I think I remember. (Door opens and closes. 
Voice normal). Was it on the shelf or in my dis¬ 
patch box? Morganet—Duhaut—perhaps we may 
strike a light now. Pierre is suffering—make a light 
—what—God—my—side—who fired? Oh—oh 
(falls). (Silence). 

Duhaut —Is he dead? 

Morganet —God grant it. This expedition needs 
a man at the head of it. 

Duhaut (Significantly)—Aye—one man, Mor¬ 
ganet. 

Morganet (Not noticing)—Yes, he’s dead. His 
heart has stopped. I’ll take his sword and cloak and 
boots. By rights, they’re mine—I killed him. A 
leader needs fine clothes. And this expedition needs 
a man. Ha, those boots come off easily. Go, but 
the fever’s shrunk him. Now the award—it is a 
lovely sword. The King himself gave it to him, all 
carved and jeweled. Many’s the time I’ve watched 
it flashing in the sun— 

Duhaut (Menacingly)—The expedition needs a 
man, Morganet. One man. 

Morganet —Eh? Yes, of course, a man. I always 
like the lining of coat—’tis a pretty color— 

Duhaut —Fool! The expedition needs a man— 
and I am the man. Ah, there! You admired La 
Salle’s sword,—Mine is not jewelled but the blade 
is just as keen. Taste that!—the colonists would 


142 


Texas History Play 


never follow you anywhere—you drunken fool. 
(Morganet falls). Fancy you wearing the Cavalier’s 
clothes. 

(Silence) The door opens and closes steathily. 
(Silence again). 

]ean (Calling off stage)—Sire—Sire, did you 
find the lotion? Pierre has dozed a little. Perhaps I 
can help—(clearer). Sire—Sire—^The latch sticks. 
There! Mother of God! There is the smell of blood 
here—the smell of blood—and the silence of death, 
(pauses). (In frightened tones). Father—Father— 
come quickly—^bring a light—bring a light, Pierre, 

father —^What is it my child? What is wrong? 

Jean —Father, Father, I am afraid. There is an 
awful stillness in this room—and no one answers— 
oh, I am afraid—afraid! 

father —Cavalier! My son—answer, my son! Mor¬ 
ganet—Duhaut! Where could they have gone? 
Jean, say nothing—say nothing to the others—but 
bring a light—bring a light quickly, my child, 
(pause). 

Jean —Father, here is a brand—there is a candle 
by the door. Light it. There! God, have mercy— 
have mercy—Oh Cavalier—Cavalier! 

father —Dead—murdered and stripped—like any 
common criminal. My son—my son—God grant 
him peace—God shrive his soul! And Morganet 
dead too—Duhaut and his colleague must have quar¬ 
reled. They were like two brothers before the In¬ 
dians came. 


Texas History Play 


143 


]ean —Oh, the dogs—the swine—I would I were 
a man! Fd take a sword and run this Duhaut thru. 
Fd let him taste of steel—Fd like— 

Father —Jean—Jean—peace, child. Such harsh 
words are not for your lips. 

]ean —But to have act upon him in the dark—the 
gentlest bravest man that ever walked. 

Father —A brave and pious man—I knew him in 
his youth when he was in the Jesuit School. His 
father did not like his lack of worldliness. He drove 
him from his home because he sowed no wild oats 
like other boys. A fool he called him—a lad who 
lacked a lad’s desires, he said. My son, my son— 
to see him thus. Yes, he is dead—quite dead. His 
heart is still—and Morganet’s too— 

)ean —That dog! As if it mattered! Fm glad he’s 
dead! ’Twas his and that other’s doing that we had 
the raid tonight—that Pierre lies wounded! Oh, 
I could kill him over again— 

Father —Peace, child, peace—let me think what 
is best to do—what is the best for all of us. The 
Indians must not know of this—they would as¬ 
suredly destroy us all if they should learn that La 
Salle was dead—slain by his own men. We must 
take him out tonight and bury him where none 
may ever know. 

]ean —The Indians would dig him up and take 
his scalp—it would be a trophy for them—the 
scalp of the Cavalier le Sieur La Salle— 


144 


Texas History Play 


Father —You are strong, Jean, and brave, else 
you would have never followed this expedition af¬ 
ter your brothers’ death at Matagorda. Can you 
help me to carry him out and bury him? 

Jean (Passionately)—I could carry him alone if 
need be. Father, and I can wield a spade like any 
man, if we must dig his grave. 

Father —Then lift him child, there by his knees. 
Gently, gently. He’s light from long fasting and 
fever. Blow out the light. We dare not open the 
outer door with a light still burning. Careful, child, 
careful. 

Jean —Wait—wait. Father. Do not open the door 
yet. I must get something—I must find it—wait— 

Father —What is it, child? 

Jean —His map—his map—I know well where 
he kept it. He shall hold it in his hands. They shall 
not have that. His sword—his cloak—even his 
boots—but clothes of La Salle will not make a La 
Salle of any man—they’ll soon learn that. Oh, I 
have found it—there. Cavalier, keep what is yours— 
keep it forever, I, Jean, give it to you. (sobs). 
Father, swear by the Holy Mother that you shall 
tell no man where we shall lay the Cavalier—no 
one! Not even though death be the penalty of si¬ 
lence. For Duhaut will seek to know. And he is 
leader now. Swear, Father, I pray you. 

Father —I swear my child, that none shall ever 
know where La Salle lies buried. Lift him now and 


Texas History Play 145 

blow out the candle. We must keep well to the 
shadows. 

Jean —Yes, Father. 

Father —Is he a burden, child? Your breath comes 
catchy. 

Jean (sobbing)—No, Father, the Cavalier is not 

a burden—it is my heart—it is my heart— 

So the Cavalier from France was borne forth to 
an unknown grave in a strange and alien country, 
and the villian Duhaut left in charge of the helpless 
little colony at old Ft St. Louis, none of whom 
ever lived to see the Mississippi or the shores of 
France again. 



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